


Sum Tuo Aere (Yours For A Copper)

by my_thestral



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, memories of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_thestral/pseuds/my_thestral
Summary: Draco Malfoy’s been having a bit of a recurring issue with nightmares ever since the war. It’s always been manageable, of course… well, right up until his beloved son decides it is time to leave the family home at last to move in – gulp! – with Rose Weasley. Draco’s world implodes overnight and it’s anything but pretty. Enter a highly-recommended – though extremely exhausted – Healer, who specializes in some rubbish odd treatment, that’s obviously never going to work. Only, the copper-haired wonder might have an ace or two up his sleeve, that Draco never saw coming. For one, it’s another bloody Weasley, and he might be, uhm, just a little bit gorgeous...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was part of the Harry Potter Mental Health Fest 2017 also known as [hp_mhealthfest](http://hp-mhealthfest.dreamwidth.org/) this year taking place at Dreamwidth. About a million of profound and sincere “Thank you!”s to my super patient beta and good friend [bleedingangel84](http://bleedingangel84.livejournal.com), who fought her way through the gutter of my nightmare-inducing grammar, and cheered me on, when I felt like kicking this story to the curb for being too long, too bland, too… whatever. This piece was inspired by the lyrics of the song called “Innerlane” by Beseeched. Beware, it's not a light peace. It's for all of us, living with scars.  
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

It happened again last night. One of my… episodes. A more violent one this time. They seem to turn progressively more violent ever since… well, it's still sort of hard to imagine, but my Scorpius, my bright, beautiful boy, is all grown up and has finally left the manor. I couldn't stand in his way, naturally… no, that wouldn’t be right, even though I have no love for the Weasley girl he's moving in with. He's been obsessed with her since he was 14, so now, nearly a decade later, I've grown accustomed to it, and it no longer annoys me. They have my blessing. I still can't stand her father, obviously… or her mother, for that matter – not even her uncle! – but she is… she’ll do.

But ever since Scorpius has been out of the house, my… nightly episodes... seem to have grown in frequency and intensity. Until, two weeks ago, I crossed the line and Astoria left me. I can’t really blame her: I _did_ attack her after all. Granted, I did it unwittingly and was deeply convinced I was merely defending myself, but I could’ve hurt her quite badly, or worse, had she not been able to reach her wand in time. After that, there was no chance of keeping the pretence of our marriage together. That’s all it ever was anyway. The Malfoy line needed an heir, and she needed a rich husband to provide for her. She was a kind, beautiful and smart woman, so I had no reason to object. I reckon she even fancied herself in love with me for a while… but she must know better by now. At least she realises it could never be reciprocated. Love is… hard for me, and I’ve only ever felt it properly for one person other than my parents. No, not for myself, and certainly not for Astoria. And I’ve never felt what people describe as _romantic_ love; I was never _in_ love. The concept seems horribly overrated.

Still, it had been an amicable, solid enough marriage, and I suppose I did end up feeling love in the end, just not the sort anyone expected. Because, you see, when my Scorpius was born, it seemed as if all the love I would ever feel had been born with him. I love that boy insanely. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, and he never stops fascinating me. In the end, I even let him go, because that was the best I could give him. But that was also the beginning of my demise.

I was always… troubled, after the war. Hardly anyone could blame me. I spent long weeks surrounded by evil, dangerous, bored wizards – and one select witch – whose only entertainment was to torture and murder people they thought beneath them. But at least they had some morals to guide them. He… the Dark Lord… god, after all this time, I still have problems using his name… _Voldemort_ had none. He was a deranged, unhinged madman who loved only power and trampled over everything and everyone to get it.

During those dreadful months at the manor, there were moments when I nearly became the true victim of those monsters. My father’s status as one of Dark Lord’s favourites was weakening, slowly but surely, and the fact that they were our guests meant less and less every day they spent there, waiting and bored. A few more weeks in that hell, and they would have got to me. They had already made a point of tormenting me in a thousand little ways – I was hardly their equal, and they let me know it. And eventually, I felt myself becoming more like them with each passing day. Living with them was sucking my soul into the darkness.

But I did have two things that protected me, physically and… otherwise. The first one… the one that can still turn my stomach when I think of it, happened in the early days of their stay in Malfoy Manor, before the tedious wait to capture Potter really began. Everyone present was still over the moon about having the Dark Lord back – except a select few who knew better than to demonstrate their lack of enthusiasm – and he was willing to be gracious, pretending as if there was some method to his madness. He _loved_ to bask in the adoration of his followers, and in those moments, he was most willing to be gracious. Perhaps he tried to pretend he still had a soul, perhaps he was merely trying to project that there was bright future ahead for all under his rule... who could tell what went on in his mad, dark mind? But it was during one such moment that I felt his icy reptilian arms snake around me in an embrace, and time ground to a screeching halt.

As trivial as it sounds, that embrace was the best protection I could have asked for; _that_ was no ordinary hug. He had shown everyone he had plans for me, that I was to be the poster child of the new generation of pure-blood wizards who were loyal to him, and, consequently enjoyed his protection. No one really dared hurt me… much… after that. Not even my mad Aunt Bella, whose envious gasp was the only sound accompanying the heart-stopping moment.

But my soul is still haunted by the memory of his foul embrace. To this very day, there are moments when, in my madness, I can still feel the foul stench of him wrap around me, surrounding me, and owning me – and it feels as if there is no way out alive. The vapours of death and decay from the world beyond are upon me, seeping through me like the essence of that long-dead creature that dwelled in his corporeal form due to some vicious dark magic… and I am permeated by it, I am poisoned by it. The horrible smell of an open grave is all over me, devouring me, corroding me, pulling me under, and nothing, not even hours of scrubbing my skin until it’s raw and bleeding can get it out until my madness passes. I was embraced by pure evil, and there are traces of it still residing under my very skin. I’m certain of it.

Still, there is no denying it: that embrace saved me from perishing… saved my body from perishing. The thing that really kept whatever little sanity I had left afloat… was a very stubborn ray of hope. Hope that I could do better, hope that just wouldn’t die, no matter what they’d put me through. It was born in the moment at the top of the Astronomy Tower in the darkest moment of my life, when I got a little glimpse into my own goodness. Between my aunt’s mad shrieking to finish the Headmaster off, and the echo of his voice telling me I was no coldblooded murderer, I realised I wouldn’t do what I was sent there to do, not even when my own life was at stake. Not back then, I wouldn’t. Not when I could still choose between my life and Dumbledore’s. Later...

I don’t wish to think about what I did… what I was forced to do later. I survived, that’s what I did. I helped my parents survive, and we took care of each other as best as we could in that living hell they’d turned our home into. And all this time, that little ray of hope that I was not beyond salvaging, that I could do better, that one day I _would_ do better and would be free of this nightmare, kept my head above water. I persevered, and I kept going, not only through the war and the loss of friends, status, and nearly my freedom, but also afterwards… Afterwards, when no one would go near the Malfoys, when unknown people tried to hex my mother and me whenever we showed our faces in public, when it took Father three rounds around the pure-blood families with eligible daughters to find me a bride, when I kept waking up in my own mess with my throat raw from screaming due to the night terrors that just wouldn’t stop… I persisted. I persevered. I kept my head up and kept going – and I got my lucky break when my Scorpius was born.

It was as if the light had entered my life at last, and I would never have to walk completely in the darkness as long as I had him. When they put him in my arms and I looked at that tiny, round, innocent face with curious grey eyes… my heart skipped a beat, and the world was never quite the same again. It was love at first sight. Love, protectiveness, and new strength to keep going through my life, which had seemed bleak and colourless until that moment. I felt the impact of the little life in my hands immediately. My nightmares subsided – they were less frequent, less intense, less frightening. Perhaps because my sleep had become so much lighter. I was always looking out for the signs of distress in my baby son, waking up at the slightest sound that could have meant his discomfort – but nearly every night, my Scorpius slept soundly. There was no question whether his crib would be in our bedroom or not; I had picked that thing up and physically transported it there myself the first night after he was born. Before that, I couldn’t have imagined I’d love anyone quite that much.

It took me a couple of years to allow my reason to prevail over my concerned heart, and I had Scorpius’s bed moved out of our bedroom. To the adjacent room – that went without saying. I didn’t sleep a second the night after the change – not until my boy wandered to my bed in the wee hours of the morning, still warm and drowsy from sleep, and crawled between my sheets where I closed my arms around him. Only then I could doze off, knowing I would always keep him safe from the world.

It came as a shock a few years after that when Astoria proposed that he be moved into his own wing of the house. Whatever for!? I couldn’t think of a reason! There was a wall between us, was there not?! He was properly shielded from our nightly activities, however rarely they occurred. Why was there any need to put further distance between us? Didn’t she love him? Didn’t she love having him around? But my wife was a clever woman. She looked me in the eye, unperturbed by my enraged, panicked accusations, and she told me I would suffer greatly once our lovely boy moved on to Hogwarts if I didn’t allow the gap between us to grow just a little wider. She told me I was smothering the child, that I had made myself his only friend, and that he needed the company of his peers, or he will be at disadvantage compared to other Hogwarts students, who enjoyed a much larger network of social contacts than our son did. Clever, like I said.

So I did it for him. I asked his opinion; I told him that he was not obliged to do my bidding in the matter – still secretly hoping at that point, I guess, that he would reject our plans for him – but he agreed to the move, and as much as it pained me at the time, I confess he seemed enthusiastic about the whole affair. My first proper nightmare in years returned on the night he moved and it was such a violent episode that it had woke him up, even when he was a good number of rooms away from our bedroom.

I will never forget the look on his face when he entered the room, scared, unprepared for whatever was there to meet him, but bravely pointing his toy wand at whatever monster was tormenting his father. He was only nine at the time, but I realised in that moment that Astoria was right: he deserved better than I could give him. He crawled into the messed up, sweaty, wet sheets of my bed without a single word that night and just locked his arms around my poor, tormented head. And held me. The way I should have been holding him. And then the tiny, selfless angel I’d raised asked me if I wanted him to move back into his old room. It took everything that I had at that moment, not to jump at my chance. But I could still smell _His_ stench on me, though I knew that my son wouldn’t be able to detect it; so I swallowed my screams and told him I was going to be fine. He was welcome to stay where he was. He was better there. Safer.

Putting him on that train to Hogwarts was every bit the torment Astoria had predicted it was going to be. I drove myself spare thinking about all the things I could be subjecting him to – the friendless existence, the shunning by his fellow students… I couldn’t even stomach _thinking_ about the potential abuse. He was a Malfoy, a descendant of the family that chose the wrong side of war. _Twice_. What could possibly go right?!

It turns out that son of mine was born under a lucky star. He had promised to write as soon as he got a chance, and I didn’t even bother with sleep the first night he was away. But in the morning, his owl arrived, and I remember nearly strangling the poor feathered messenger trying to pry the letter out of her talons. The first thing I noticed was a photograph that was somehow projected onto the scroll. It was clearly from the Hogwarts Express, and it featured my son smiling shyly into the camera, with a redheaded girl grinning wildly on his left, and a boy with sparkling green eyes and a similar shy smile on his right. I never knew I would look at a Potter and a Weasley and feel such relief. My son was letting me know through the letter that he had made new friends, and they took something called a _“selfie”_ with some blessed Muggle technology to prove to me that I had nothing to worry about. Merlin… he was going to be all right. That was all I could think about. A Potter… and a Weasley… and now, a Malfoy. Salazar the Great… what I wouldn’t give to have had that back then, though I was always too proud to admit it. 

He sent two, sometimes three letters a week for the entire stretch of his seven years spent at Hogwarts, and between his letters and the prospect of holidays… he never missed any… I survived somehow. His letters were showing the same concern for me as I had for him, because, by some incomprehensible miracle my Scorpius was just an incredibly caring soul.

_“Are you sleeping well, Father? You better not be shutting yourself up again! Will you attend the Ministry charity event? I’m hoping for a picture of you in the Prophet!”_

_This._ This was my son. Always caring about me, always pushing me an extra step towards my well-being. So I did it for him. I took potions when I felt a bad night coming up. I attended as many Ministry events as I could stomach, and made sure I was seen in the background of at least one of the pictures posted in that rag of a newspaper. I took good care of myself so as not to let him down, reminding myself I needed to be there for him, and I was. He finished his formal education with the second highest number of N.E.W.T.S. under his belt – because… ugh… Rose Weasley – but it wasn’t the number of his N.E.W.T.S. that made my heart sing. Upon his return from Hogwarts, he came home to inform me that he agreed with Rose to wait a little while before moving in together, so he would be staying with me in the manor for some time to come. I could barely contain my joy.

I suppose even then, five years ago, Rose and my Scorpius were a done deal, as solid a match as was ever made in Heaven. It didn’t matter to them if they had to delay living together for a while. They had nothing to prove; they were it. He was going through the training to become a fully-qualified Healer, and I admit I was equal parts shocked and touched by his enthusiastic determination to care for others. Rose was the level-headed one; she was all about politics. She wanted to make a large-scale impact – as was becoming of the Minister’s daughter – and that meant inhumanely long hours and insane schedules at the Ministry’s many departments. But somehow, they always found time for one another, and in those five years, I saw much more of Rose Weasley than I would have liked.

It’s not like I don’t _like_ the girl, no… She is as smart and gifted as they come, with a sardonic, brittle sense of humour, yet incredibly charitable and, of course, very beautiful. But most of all, she is just as head over heels about my Scorpius as he is about her – so really, I have no reason whatsoever to dislike her. Still, there was always the nasty thought nagging at the back of my brain that one day she would take my son away from me and end this comfortable, satisfying arrangement we’ve set up. And it had happened sooner than I had expected. _A lot_ sooner. A mere five years, that’s all I got! Merlin, one would think… Oh, I suppose consciously I knew it wasn’t just her, that there was no pressure needed or applied, and that it was my Scorpius’s, my grown-up son’s wish as well as hers, to finally start a life together on their own. That’s how life works, and really, I should have known… I should have expected.

Still, it hit me like a brick to the head when they’d broken the news to me, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, flushed and happy – and I just couldn’t break their bliss with my misery. So I nodded stiffly, wished them both good luck, and informed my son that I had set aside assets for such an occasion, so they could splurge on their first flat a little. It turned out that Rose’s parents – Ron Weasley, a successful joke-shop co-owner these days, and his wife Hermione Granger, the current Minister for Magic – had much the same thoughts. And since our children – however proud of their measly income – couldn’t really turn down gifts, they were set up for a more-than-comfortable life together. I should have been happy for them… I _was_ happy for them, but for me… their decision brought nothing but misery. I crumbled on the inside that very day.

It didn’t take long for my nightmares to return, as if they were only swept aside to a dark corner of my mind, captured there by the light that was my son, and could not wait to ravage me the second the light was gone. I didn’t even get a single night’s rest. Every single night, it was the same recurring nightmare. I was running down the corridors of the manor, neglected and poorly lit as they were during that terrible time when war was upon us, and I was manic with fear. With every hurried step I took, the candles were being extinguished behind my back by some unknown horror following me, approaching me, making me run even faster. There were screams and crazy cackles behind me, and I was exhausted, but I kept running until I turned the corner… and suddenly there was nothing.

Like the world had stopped, like the time was no more. The voices went silent, and there was nothing but pitch darkness, corporeal in its thickness, watching me with a thousand eyes, its heavy breathing sending waves of panicked dread and despair through me. I could feel the ice-cold breath of the horror chasing me on my neck, and it made my skin prickle as if it was being stuck with needles. And there was nowhere to run. Until, inevitably, that bone-chilling touch was upon me, sending shivers down my spine, and that’s when I started to fight… thrash… scream… trying to scrape the horrible darkness washing over me off my skin, shred through it, but it was like trying to grab empty, frozen, heavy fog, and it was sucking the air from my lungs as if I was being devoured from the inside out.

It was in one of those fits of nightly madness that I hurt Astoria. I don’t even know why we still insisted on sharing a bedroom; it’s not like either of us remembered we were still young enough for another child, or at least some off-hand intimacy. It had been apparent to me for some years by then that my… preferences... were somewhat different – not that I ever dared act on them – and Merlin knows what hers were; it was certainly not in my nature to ask. But the fact remained we were not very well matched in the bedroom. Perhaps it was the old pure-blood pride, unwillingness to admit that our marriage was a failure, that still kept us together. We shared a bedroom as a normal couple would, but there had hardly been any intimacy between us since Scorpius was born. But she still came to our bedroom every night like a queen dutifully taking her throne, and she would sleep next to me.

Most of the nights before our son’s departure had been fairly uneventful. Whenever I had felt a bad night coming up, I would take potions and excuse myself with some work or the other, spending the night in my study, which boasted an exceptionally comfortable sofa with millions of cushioning charms. But that changed once Scorpius left. My nightly horrors could no longer be predicted or contained, and it was as if the darkness I carried inside me all these years somehow found a way out of its container and spilled all over me, defiling me, ruining me for everything else. I could not sleep properly, and I dreaded dozing off during the day, regardless of how tired I was. I took potions to keep myself awake, and I was exhausted, unable to focus on anything, and barely composed during the day. My mood was foul from all the fatigue, and my appearance visibly deteriorated. I lost what little appetite and interests I had, and by the fateful night when I attacked Astoria, I had turned into a proper ghost of myself.

I went to bed just like any other day, fearing the moment I would succumb to my tiredness, and no matter how much I tried to postpone it, it always inevitably came. I was too exhausted to stay awake, and the dosage of potions that was required to knock me out was nearing lethal quantities – I had enough knowledge to realise that. So at some point, I must have closed my eyes, and the next thing I remember was the sight of my hands tightly locked around Astoria’s neck, squeezing the life out of my poor wife just before the blasting spell hit me and I flew backwards into the wall. If my wife wasn’t so well-versed in non-verbal spells, I would have made myself a widower and a murderer… once again. I was so shocked, lying by the wall trying to catch my breath, that I barely understood what she was trying to tell me.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she was saying, the tears streaming down her face and her voice choked. “Merlin knows I love you more than you deserve, Draco, but I… we can’t go on like this. _You_ can’t go on like this. You need help. I know you’ve suppressed whatever it is you’d been through in that bloody war, love, but it has to come out, not fester on the inside. It’s making you ill. It’s making what little peace we’ve made during our years together shatter. I stayed around after Scorpius left, prepared to pick up the broken bits of you – because I _know_ you; I knew you would fall apart. But this is… I can’t do this. I know you feel nothing for me – you haven’t, not for years, not ever, though you’ve always given me your attention and respect – but now you no longer care for yourself, either. And I can’t do this any longer. I’m locked up in the tomb of a palace with a man who’s dying on the inside – and it’s suffocating me, Draco.”

By then, the brave, wonderful woman I married approached me and kneeled down next to me, even though I’d tried to kill her moments ago – and I swear I never wanted the comfort of her touch more. Only… I was dead frightened to lay a finger on her, and too shocked and shattered to even find words. But, kind and intuitive as she was, she understood. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned my head into her, silently begging for forgiveness. I knew that it was given without her speaking a single word… and I also knew that it was over between us. I owed her that much. I needed to let her go, let her fly and take her warmth, her big, generous heart with all that love she was capable of and give it to someone who would have it gladly. Someone, who would be able to give her as much love as she deserved. I… couldn’t. I was too broken on the inside.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, and I knew she understood that I wasn’t apologising just for hurting her, but for all the wrong I had caused her by letting her whither by my side for all those years.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said quietly. “We’ve had some good years as a family, and we’ve raised a wonderful son together. And for what it’s worth… I loved you, I still do. So don’t be sorry, because I’m not. I spent over two decades of my life at the side of the man I will always love with a part of my heart, and I have no regrets. But I do wish to have a parting present from you: I want you to get better. Can you do that, Draco? Will you at least try?”

I nodded feebly. As guilt-ridden as I was, I would have promised her anything, but honestly, I had no idea how to go about it. I’ve been living with my terrors and my guilt for so long, I could barely imagine how it would be to live… free. Free from potions I came to depend on, free from murderous headaches and subsequent memory loss that made me come to my senses in places I had no recollection of going to. Free from flashes of cruel memories that came upon me without warning, leaving me incapacitated, frozen, and feeling filthy for hours to come; free to fall asleep and not wake up screaming, free… _free_. How would that feel? How would I even go about that? How did one get free like that? Did I even deserve to be free of it?

I had no answers to these questions, and the force of my headache was turning blinding. I took potions that evening that knocked me out for nearly a day and a half, not caring if I ever woke up. But when I opened my eyes at last, Astoria was gone and I found my son sitting next to me, worry and anxiety etched into his face. My wife… my soon to be ex-wife had apparently been serious about her parting gift, and she had engaged the one person I was willing to go to the end of hell for, on my bloody knees if I had to. There’s no need to repeat the conversation that ensued with my son; let it suffice to say that it had ended in my complete and utter capitulation. I had agreed to seek help.

My son has left me with very clear instructions on where to get it. And what made my choice a little easier was the fact that he would be near should I require his assistance. St. Mungo’s was his destination as well as mine.


	2. Chapter 2

So, here I am. First floor, corridor on the left, last door on the right – that’s where the pretty young witch at reception in St. Mungo’s instructed me to go when I showed her the paper on which my son had scribbled: _Post-traumatic maladies and disorders._ What a strange name to call it – yet oddly fitting. I try to steel my nerves and remind myself that I’m a Malfoy… Draco Malfoy, who had survived the Dark Lord’s embrace and his continued presence in my home for months, and that tiny little _informative_ visit at St. Mungo’s was nothing by comparison. But I know myself too well to persist in lying. I’m here for _help_ – and this, to say the least, is disconcerting.

But in the end, I have no choice. I’ve come this far, have I not? To be honest, I expect nothing, no benefit, from this … treatment, but at least I will have something to tell Scorpius should he inquire about it in the evening. That boy… I don’t know how I, the epitome of selfishness, managed to raise a boy like that. It’s been a couple of months since he moved out, and he still fire-calls as often as he can to check on me, bless his heart. And he visits, too.

“Saturday afternoons are yours, Father, as much as the Sunday lunches belong to the Weasley family,” he always says with that sweet smile of his that almost makes me doubt my paternity. It’s almost surreal to look into _my_ eyes, shining brightly on _my_ face – because there’s barely a trace of Astoria in him – and see a smile on it that is so kind and sweet that it nearly erases all the Malfoyness out of him. My boy is beautiful in a way I never knew how to be. I’m doing this for him. So he can have a father he can still be proud of, if only very privately.

So I force myself to lift my hand and I knock on the door. I’ve never felt more like running since the war ended. But I stay. For him. For my son. Because he deserves better than the disintegrating person I’ve become.

I’m so deeply immersed in myself, it takes me a few moments before I notice there hasn’t been any reply to my knocking. I make my fingers rap on the door again, silently promising myself that I will leave if there’s no answer this time either. There isn’t one. And in the end, it simply annoys me too much. Malfoys aren’t meant to wait, and even with what the years have done to the Malfoy name and to me, I’m still a true heir to the name. I decide to try the door just once, come what may. And it opens for me smoothly, as if I was welcome all along.

The first thing I see stops me dead in my tracks. My eyes catch on a river of long coppery hair, glowing and glittering like some untouchable treasure of old under the late afternoon sun, and the imagery is so magical and surreal, it leaves me dazed. I’ve always had a thing for beauty, and this thing… the scenery, the setting sun making a curtain of long red hair look as if a fountain of fire in the middle of the room had come to life, is by far one of the most sublime things I’ve seen in quite a while. It’s like visual magic, and I can’t take my eyes off the person – clearly a man, judging by the width of the shoulders – leaning forward onto his folded arms, resting on the table, and dozing away. He makes a stunning sight. And… there is something else. His face is tucked into his folded arms, and though I can’t see it, his sleep makes him look… guileless. I realise it gives me just the sense of control I’ve craved badly, and which I could never hope to get once I crossed the threshold into this place. Somehow, he made me feel safe just by being there, sleeping, as if this was a safe place to sleep. If only I could have that once more… that sort of peace of mind. But that’s what I’m here for, am I not?

I take a step further and I close the door behind me, only a little surprised when I hear the lock click – apparently the self-locking charm is a standard feature to this particular door, yet it had opened for me so easily… Unsure how to proceed, I take a look around the medium-sized room, and I find myself strangely comforted by how airy and… homey it is. One wall is almost completely covered with large, semi-circular windows, and the shelves carved into the thick wall underneath them are adorned with cushions, as if they were inviting a visitor to come and have a seat and absorb the light.

There’s certainly light aplenty, and the furniture seems more befitting of a one-room flat rather than St. Mungo’s clinic. A slightly worn out sofa in front of the fireplace occupying one corner looks so wonderfully comfortable it’s practically calling the name of my exhausted self. Against the opposite wall, covered from top to bottom in bookshelves, there is a small working desk that appears to be overloaded with papers and strange instruments I can think of no use for. But the true centre of the room seems to be a round coffee table with a scratched wooden top, surrounded by a number of cosy-looking recliners, and that fixture is currently hosting the redheaded piece of art. It’s all so… _not sterile_ , almost friendly, and oddly welcoming, like a relaxing study room - not unlike my own - rather than a hospital. It’s nothing like what I expected… and feared, if I’m entirely honest. It’s almost… pleasant.

And then it dawns on me that I might be at the wrong place altogether. Of course, that must be it! I had wandered into someone’s private quarters, and I would be considered an intruder by their rightful residents. I must have misunderstood the receptionist – as scatterbrained as I was lately it was not improbable. I should really be leaving – only I don’t. I try looking elsewhere, I truly do, but my eyes are constantly being pulled towards the mesmerising centrepiece of the room: the intriguing man resting his head on the table like the proverbial Sleeping Beauty, making the room glow with his presence alone.

He’s made me curious about him, even though he is merely resting there in a world of his own. Are these his quarters? Is he the Healer? _My_ Healer; the Healer I came to see? Surely not! I can’t see his face, so there’s no way for me to tell his age, but something about him seems young… A patient, perhaps? Waiting for someone? Residing here? Oh, the door probably wouldn’t let me go out anyway – perhaps I could find out? Have I mentioned that I have a bit of an obsessive personality? Well… _yes,_ yes I do. I have issues letting things go, even when I really should. So – perhaps if I stayed just a bit longer…

I cough discreetly, just the way I was taught by my mother. I’m fairly certain it won’t work, but at least it will give me the impression that I tried to wake him up politely. But much to my surprise, the coppery head jerks up immediately and turns towards me… and I find myself staring into a pair of the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Honestly, they’re like… jewels. He’s a redhead, of course it was to be expected he would have blue eyes… but perhaps not quite _so_ blue. They’re positively _piercing_ against his creamy skin and a multitude of golden freckles… and he _is_ young – surely too young to be a Healer! And he is… well, shockingly… attractive.

Oh, I suppose he couldn’t be considered classically beautiful, not with the waist-length copper-red hair and those galaxies of freckles, but to me… he just might be the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever encountered. Remember those preferences I mentioned not being compatible with the image of my wife? Well, a magnificent redhead with eyes like summer skies might be the perfect match for them. Yes, uhm, a _male_ one. Don’t even get me started on that. I’ve lost enough sleep over that as it is, and it didn’t change a damn thing. Luckily, I’ve become such an anti-social recluse that I was rarely tempted to take any steps in that direction… and I certainly can’t remember _ever_ being as intrigued as right now when those hypnotic blue gems are on me. I’ve never actually… Merlin’s glory, what am I thinking?! I wouldn’t _dare_ make advances, surely not! Not now, God forbid, no, this is St. Mungo’s, for god’s sake, I came here for a _proper_ reason, and yet… I seem to have forgotten how to form thoughts for a moment there…

“I apologise for intruding on you… and your rest…” I start, just to say something, but though my voice has the same cool, slightly bored quality to it that I schooled into it decades ago, I barely know what will jump out of my mouth.

“I was wondering… are you waiting for a Healer?”

This… _misery_ is all my stuttering brain can come up with. And I’m still shamelessly devouring him with my eyes, as if my mental self-reproach hasn’t left the faintest impression on my unruly behaviour. He’s… oh, must words fail me now?!... irresistible, perhaps?

As a response to my question, the soft, generous mouth curves up in a tiny, sexy smile that makes him look like a Kneazle that just woke up all warm and cuddly from his sleep, and as he shakes his marvellous head, the glittering river of that coppery-gold hair breaks into small rivulets of silken locks.

“Merlin, no… most certainly not,” he says, and it’s a proper shock how deep and melodic his voice is for someone so young. “But I was waiting for you. Mr. Malfoy, right? Your son said to expect you. I was supposed to receive you and introduce you to the procedure of treatment, but… uhm, look, I’m sorry I fell asleep like this,” he briefly rubs his face with his hands, and I get a chance to large, elegant palms, with long, strong fingers that make him look masterful. Did I mention that hands like these just happen to be another one of my weaknesses?

But then those gem-like eyes are back on me, and… Merlin, they’re just… so deep, and so very blue… and hopelessly distracting. I really should stop looking into his eyes; I can barely register what he’s saying! Words seem to reach me with a bit of delay, and it feels as if my tired brain is taking its bloody time to process them. I find it hard to look away. It’s like I’m spellbound.

“…but they’re working us like the house-elves of old, and I haven’t been home to rest in about three days straight. Still, I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful; I should have known better than to fall asleep at my work. Merlin… if my mother hears about this, she’ll scold the ears off me!” the redhead murmurs, and his face scrunches up in a very boyish and… gods… adorable way.

I confess, a phrase like this one brings back some memories that make me hid a smile… but speaking of memories – there is something vaguely familiar about his appearance as well.

But before I can figure it out, he stands up, and it is as if a mountain has moved. With a swish of his wand, his gorgeous river of red hair is tied into neat plait, and it’s only then that I notice the robes identifying him as a Healer. In spite of his young face, I promptly forget about his age when he’s towering above me, a good half a head taller, and he’s so… in charge.

Jesus, I haven’t had that in years… someone to tell me what to do, to take the lead, the responsibility… to take the weight of my shoulders. But he is most definitely that kind of a person. I suppose his height alone makes an impression… but there’s more. There’s this invisible, bewitching aura about him that makes my knees weak and tells me I have no choice but to yield. God, how I crave that. I could never honestly confess that to myself, but I crave it. I’m no good on my own, though I’ve tried for so many years, but perhaps my father conditioned me to follow, not to lead… and now I need someone to lean on. And I’ve never felt it more acutely than in the proximity to this charismatic young man. I might as well accept my fate… and, oh god, his hand.

He’s just held it out to me for a proper introduction, and as good manners require, I have to look into his eyes as I accept it… I have to. It’s etiquette, you see. I also have to tilt my head up to take in his impressive height, and when my eyes find the hypnotic, diamond-blue orbs, I once again have that feeling – as if I can no longer look away. Is the little innocent smile he gives me supposed to make my breath hitch like this? I don’t know anymore. His commanding presence seems to be confusing all my senses.

“I’m Hugo. Hugo Weasley. Pleased to meet you... at last.”

Oh, god, yes… that was it. Of course he is. His father… yes. Merlin’s grace. _Another Weasley._ Obviously, it’ll take one of them to save me. But I promptly forget his name – and possibly my own – when those strong fingers close around my ice-cold hands. His giant hand engulfs mine like a warm blanket of comfort, and an unexpected wave of liquid, heady magic floods over me, so overpowering in its majestic, golden hue, I can barely keep my footing. Somehow I feel… lighter… elated… as if in that one surge has cleaned me and delivered all my problems into the hands of another. This young man… his magic is exceptional. I think he knows. He _must_ know. I imagine that’s why he chose this profession. I know I’m just one of his potential patients… but at this moment, I don’t care. I desperately don’t want him to let go of my hand.

“Yes, I’m… pleased to meet you as well,” I finally manage to utter, but he doesn’t seem to mind my incoherence.

“I’m the Healer around here – that is, when I’m not sleeping,” he smiles a blissful smile that takes my breath away and leaves me utterly unprepared for what he says next. “So I’m yours for the afternoon,” he points out matter-of-factly, and his deep, melodic voice makes my inside quiver and resonate with some unknown emotion.

“You know, if you’ll still have me.”

I… forgive me, but I’m kind of not functioning properly on the inside… like I’m falling apart. I know that I should thank him politely, tell him I expected someone older – _ask_ for someone else, for Heaven’s sake, _anyone_! – only I can’t. I can’t even take my eyes off him. I’ve always denied myself such… feelings – any kind of feelings, save those I have for my son – so to have them flood me now, with such overbearing, rich intensity is… I don’t even know how to deal with it. Why must all my weaknesses come back to haunt me in a moment like this?! But I’m utterly and completely unable to resist.

“Yes,” I croak out, somewhat desperate to put on some sort of appropriate façade. “I’ll… I’ll have you.”

Merlin’s golden aura, what am I saying? Could I be any more awkward?!

“That is to say… if my son thinks you’re the best for me… and my well-being… I trust his judgement.”

There. Merlin… I’ve barely made it. This is where the years of Malfoy drill in diplomacy and politeness come handy. I never knew I’d need those damn things again.

But it’s all in vain, because there’s already that killer smile back on his face, with a naughty tinge to it now, and when he tilts his head as if he’s appraising me, I wonder if he knows what he’s doing to me, how badly he affects me. 

“Oh, good. Brilliant. I was hoping you’d say that. I guess…. _Sum tuo aere,_ Mr. Malfoy.”

And I don’t know if the heat wave that rushes through me is from his amazing smile… or from his provocative words. I can literally feel my face flush – and _that_ … is a rare occurrence.

“Do you…” flies out of my mouth before I can stop myself – and then I can’t not continue. “Do you even know what you said?”

The smile is back, but… oh, Merlin’s balls, it must be my imagination, but it kind of feels… private, challenging and charged, like it’s meant for my eyes only… and how I would even know such a thing is beyond me.

“My mother is Hermione Granger,” he says softly. “Do you really think I’d dare say something I didn’t understand?”

Oh, god… yes, there is that. Of course not.

“No… of course not. That’s not what I meant. I’m certain you understand the words… but I was wondering, how much do you know of their social… application?”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he bites his bottom lip, and I swear, my insides nearly liquefy, because it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. Ever. He’s got these really full, soft lips, and seeing those white teeth scrape against them… Merlin’s horny balls, my fingertips are tingling with the desire to reach out and touch the decadently rosy, soft flesh. I need… saving. That’s what I need. I’m headed for a trainwreck.

But then he pulls me lightly towards the comfortable sofa, and only at that moment do I become aware that he’s still holding my hand. Well, this is embarrassing… only it isn’t. It’s anything but. It’s sending an unknown tingling sensation up my arm and all over my body, and it’s sensual… and mind-melting… and I dread the moment when it’s going to dissolve. But then the back of my knees hit the sofa, forcing me to sit down… and my heart nearly stops, because suddenly, he kneels in front of me, and just like that, his incredible face is just inches from mine. I could kiss him, I could… _JesusMerlinfuck_ , what’s wrong with me?! He’s half my age; I shouldn’t be thinking that!

“Of course I am aware their social application,” he says, and there’s a clear amusement in that deep melodic voice. “ _Sum tua aere_ – I am yours for a copper – were the words found scribbled on the remains of the ancient Pompeii. They were essentially cheap propaganda by the dirt-poor prostitutes desperate to earn their living. It used to be a running joke between us, the Healer trainees around here, because they would work us to the bone for little more than lunch money.”

Oh… _oh_. I should have known better than to challenge Granger’s son. He could probably offer me the explanation in fluent Latin. There’s some serious intelligence hiding in the depths of those breathtaking, brilliant eyes…

“Mr. Malfoy…?”

What? Oh, god, I must have drifted away, staring into that universe of glittering blue… how very embarrassing.

“I’m so very sorry…” I try to croak out, but suddenly my throat is dry, and I no longer know what I was supposed to be sorry for.

He smiles, gently this time, and lifts his arm as if in a peace offering, and then he simply takes my other ice-cold hand into his large palms. I swear, it feels as if my body starts to buzz under his warm touch and proximity.

“You know… I really wanted you…” he says, nearly making my heart jump out of my chest for no sane reason whatsoever. “I mean… oh, bugger… I wanted your case,” he explains with a small apologetic smile, which is a completely good thing, because I have no business feeling things so confusing and… improper, they are better fitted to a teenager.

“Your son approached me about your… _issues_ in complete confidentiality, I assure you. In such a circumstance, I’m bound to protect your privacy by magic. I’ve been giving your case a lot of thought, and I would really like to help you to get better. But before we start, there are perhaps a few things you need to know about me – well, mostly my methods. At any point - until you explicitly agree to participate - you would be perfectly within your rights to walk away from here, and look for a person that you perhaps consider better qualified to offer you proper treatment. But if you choose to stay – ”

He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to stress the importance of what he is about to say, and I have to keep myself from swallowing and nodding already, because it would be embarrassing to confess that I can’t even _consider_ leaving anymore. He is… it’s him I want. Oh, god, for treatment, that is. Merlin. Yes. Treatment.

“If you stay,” he says quietly, “I will do _everything_ in my power to make you better. Believe it or not, I have an indication of the hell you’re going through. My family – my parents and my uncle Harry in particular – have had similar experiences since the war, and I know how hard they found it to cope. It is why I chose this profession.”

I never would have thought… but it makes perfect sense now that I think if it. No one was ever closer to that monster Voldemort than Potter. The word is, he once shared a part of his soul – and I shudder to think of the burden he must carry. I suppose the life of the Golden Trio wasn’t all sunshine and glory after the war, either.

Incomprehensibly, this knowledge makes me feel a bit better about being here… and I wonder if the blue-eyed angel shared that with me because he knew it would. Just how smart is he? Oh, scratch that. He’s Granger’s son, after all… and I’ve always suspected Weasley to have a rather clever brain under those goofy looks as well! It doesn’t matter. For my sake, he better be as clever as possible. So I look into the astute blue eyes and I nod.

“I understand,” I say. “I’m not your first case.”

“No, not by far,” he smiles in that tiny, private way of his, and it goes straight to my heart. “But as it is, you might be my worst. I was told that your experiences might have been much worse than those of my family… possibly by tenfold. Your son told me he didn’t have much detail to give me as you have kept your ordeal from him – but you would be required share it here. I need to know everything, in order to help you. You shouldn’t even _consider_ trying to spare me, not out of the sense that something might be too gruesome for me, nor out of any residual guilt you might feel. You need to purge yourself of this burden, and this is the place to do it safely, and I’m the person to help you. I promised Scorpius, who is practically family already, to dedicate all of my abilities and knowledge to help you, but you have to do the work.”

You know, this is hard. A part of me is absolutely petrified. The very thought of having to relive my night horrors, possibly in a state of awareness, fills me with icy dread. But then, there are his hands wrapped around mine – his warm, big wonderful hands that feel like a protective shield around me – and somehow, I think I could do it. I can’t go on living like this. Eventually, I would self-destruct, by chance or ill intent, and rob my son of having a father. I want to get better. For my son, and perhaps… perhaps even for myself?

So I nod again. No words come out this time. But he understands anyway. He smiles again, gently this time, and he’s got an absolutely beautiful smile. It turns his eyes into blue sparkles and it’s so… warm and comforting. The way it brightens up his face, it makes me feel as if it’s his purpose and a special kind of privilege to see him shed the light he’s filled with onto this world.

“I know this is hard for you,” he says softly. “You’ll have a chance to reconsider. But to be able to fully assess the situation, you need to know a thing or two about me and about how I work. That’s how trust is built, and I don’t want you to bind yourself to something you wouldn’t be comfortable with.”

I... _love_ this. I love how he takes his time to help me relax, how… _personal_ he makes it, even though his words are nothing but strictly professional. I love it how in charge he is, how he clearly knows what he’s doing. He must have noticed my silent approval, because the tiny, sweet smile in the corner of his lovely mouth is back, and suddenly my fingers are itching to fix a loose strand of coppery hair behind his ear. Merlin… what is happening to me? When he speaks again, the sound of his voice is a most welcome distraction from the mess in my head.

“As you might have noticed, my methods, my approach, even this place, they’re… it’s all very unorthodox, to put it mildly. But that doesn’t make me any less qualified,” he says simply, with that firm, matter-of-fact confidence that comes with the truth.

“You see, I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. While my friends and family spent carefree summer holidays playing Quidditch and resting, my mother had arranged for me – upon my request – to spend weeks in practice here, at St. Mungo’s, as well as in Muggle institutions for people with mental disorders. No job was too menial or too challenging for me; I’ve done it all to be able to learn - and learn I did. I learned about the state the patients were in when they were admitted, about the spells and medication available to make a difference, and how those helped improve their health until they were fit for discharge. I’ve learned to determine the symptoms common to a certain type of patient, the variations of their disorders, the theoretical and practical approaches to improve the broken state of mind they were in. I still make it my business to keep up with any new breakthrough methods that have promising results, and I’ve implemented a few procedures of my own that appear to have good results… but I’m boring you, surely,” he says with that slightly embarrassed, enthusiastic smile that says he could probably talk for hours on the subject.

“To put it simply: I wanted to know everything there is to know, take the best from both worlds, to help them. I worked as hard as I could to obtain all the necessary official qualifications – and degrees, as they call them in the Muggle world – to start my own work in this field and combine both approaches. And yet… In my time here, I’ve encountered lots – and I mean _lots_ , Mr. Malfoy – of prejudice, objections, and even all-out rebellion towards mixing the healing practices from the two worlds.”

He pauses and looks deep into my eyes at these words and I’m only slightly shocked to realise that I’m staring at an old soul, the soul of a fierce warrior residing within those enchanting eyes – and I’m clearly being challenged. In spite of his gentle manners, this young man is a force to be reckoned with; I have no doubt whatsoever about that.

So I swallow, and say the words to remove all doubt:

“You won’t get that from me. I’ve learned my lesson. My parents… they’re too old to change their ways, but I’ve made sure that my… altered opinions, reflect in the way I raised my son.”

Once again, his face lights up in that smile that makes my blood surge.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “I’m happy you helped me clear that up. An open mind is a wonderful thing, Mr Malfoy, and I really appreciate you giving me a chance to prove myself. Not everyone has been so gracious. But you see, I’m not a quitter, and my parents taught me that sometimes doing the right thing means standing alone. And in my case, enough people were eventually desperate for help – any kind of help – to give my approach a chance, and with time, it began showing some very good results. Your son can testify to those if you wish, but I believe it speaks for itself that last year, the Ministry agreed to let me open a department dedicated strictly to people with problems similar to yours: people who have not been born with any kind of mental disorder, but have developed one due to their life experiences, usually so damaging and immensely traumatic that they are still feeling the consequences years later.”

How does he know all that? How come it is so easy for him to put into words the very thing that is wrong with me? Oh, he’s just... impressive, isn’t he? Clearly as much of an overachiever as his mother ever was, and so much more than just bloody gorgeous. He seems genuinely dedicated to this cause. Perhaps it’s the sincerity of his efforts that leaves such an impression. I’ve just realised that in spite of his youth, he’s made me trust him. I never once doubted him because of his youth and it’s a bit surprising how very unquestionable I find his authority. It’s myself I’m not so sure of. Can I do this?

“You know, one of the first cases my supervisor here had me see was the Longbottoms,” he speaks quietly, and there’s a tinge of sadness in his voice now. “He was a very wise man. He told me he wanted me to see the effects of magic at its darkest… and to understand that there are limits to healing magic. There would _always_ be people who would be beyond my help – and I had no future in this profession if I was not willing to accept that.”

Oh, god… the Longbottoms. I’ve heard of them, of course I have, and I swear I wouldn’t have had the stomach to treat poor Neville as badly as I did if I’d known half the story back then. Merlin, it was difficult to imagine they were still alive after what my mad aunt had put them through. She certainly bragged about it often enough, especially when she got sloshed on my father’s expensive Firewhisky, so I had more than just a vague idea about what she had reduced them to. To have one’s life so utterly ruined like that… my chest unexpectedly constricts with the wave of shame and disgust that floods over me, and suddenly it feels as if my lungs can’t get enough air. But before I can succumb to a full-fledged panic attack, there’s a cold glass pressed against my lips, and the refreshing feeling of water feels like salvation.

“There you go… drink it all up, but do it slowly,” the redheaded angel says calmly, and then smiles. “Healer’s orders.”

I’m drinking in small, greedy sips, as ordered, and gradually, some sense of normality returns. Merlin, this is embarrassing. Only, he doesn’t seem to think so. He’s watching me attentively, with care, and I try to suppress the shiver that runs through me when he takes the empty glass away from me and our hands touch. And just like that, his fingers are wrapped around mine again, and I can’t help myself: I smile gratefully. I’m not beyond using any kind of support I can get. Not to mention that I love the feeling of his hands around mine.

“We need to figure out eventually what triggers these outbursts,” he murmurs to himself, but then he notices my eyes on him and he inquires quickly, with genuine concern in his voice:

“Are you feeling any better? We could continue another time…”

This… is simply not an option. Not only would I have to tell my Scorpius that I’ve failed spectacularly and embarrassed myself, I’d also have to leave… pull my hands out of his and be on my own again – and I wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.

“No, I’m… Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine,” I say hastily, desperate to gain some of my usual composure. “I’m terribly sorry about this fit. Please, go on. I wish to know more about you… that is, your work, if I am to become your… charge, is it?”

“Charge it is,” he smiles. “If you’re still willing and ready.”

“I… yes, of course. You have yet to say something that would have me storm out of this room,” I blurt out, and it earns me another smile and a tilt of his head in that lovely, elegant way, as if he’s graciously accepting my masked compliment.

“Thank you for your trust,” he says simply. “I will do my best to earn it.”

But then the look in his eyes turns contemplative and serious, and I gulp quietly, knowing that whatever is coming isn’t going to be easy to take.

“Look, I do realise that talking about the Longbottoms makes you uncomfortable,” he speaks quietly, but firmly. “But I’m afraid there is no way to avoid the territory of the uncomfortable, painful, regretful and frightening here. This is what we will do here, this is what we need to tackle; these are the feelings you need to face, stand up to, and hopefully purge from your system. Nothing else will do. Bottling up your memories and your emotions, however scary and negative, is what brought you here. Hiding from them is what is haunting you, Mr Malfoy. So if you decide you wish to go on with it, we’ll talk about everything that made you this way during our sessions. No topic is off limits, nothing is too sacred, too shameful, too painful – because you no longer need to put yourself through what you’ve already lived through once. It is in your past and this is where you need to let it rest. Sometimes it takes a while to embrace the idea that it’s time to let go and to stop punishing yourself, but if you are completely honest with me and with yourself, we’ll get there in end.”

I… believe him. I’m not… I can’t feel it yet, I’m not quite ready to embrace the idea of my own salvation yet, but those warm hands around mine say that I can do this.

“Whatever you think you deserve – or don’t deserve – it’s time to accept that you’re still here, that you survived and got a chance to still have a future,” his warm voice reaches me through my scrambled thoughts, and I look up into his eyes again. I so need what they’re promising.

“This is more than what the Longbottoms have,” he says simply and involuntary shiver ripples through me again at the thought of their fate, and this one I can’t conceal. His hands grip more firmly around mine, and I can feel the strength he’s pouring into me.

“You know, I told my uncle Harry the same as I’m going to tell you: all the survivors like yourself owe it to the people like Alice and Frank to have a good life. They have been my hardest, and most valuable lesson. To me, they are so much more than just a reminder of the limits to the healing magic. I visit them once a week to remind myself that the Healer’s work is never done. I’ve recently obtained their son’s permission to try a new therapy with Muggle medication on them, and I’m ready to start the trials next week. You see, I never give up on my patients entirely. They might be beyond my help for now, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring. I believe there’s always a way to improve their lives and the lives of those who care. The one thing that makes the patients respond universally, even if only on the most minute levels, is genuine care... and, of course, love.”

And I confess that my heart nearly stops at those words. I know he doesn’t mean them like that - he can’t - but it feels as if they are meant specifically for me. I’m very possibly completely scrambled.

“I accept that some patients might be beyond my help, but no one is beyond hope,” he speaks thoughtfully and smiles warmly. “And whether you choose to start your treatment with me or not – I can already tell you that you aren’t. You can be helped, Mr Malfoy. By me or someone else. I’m not your only option, but I’ll be honoured if you place your trust in me.”

_I won’t see anyone but you._

I nearly say that aloud.

_I want it to be you._

That as well.

But I can barely help myself. It’s like I’ve reached the point of breaking, and suddenly I can’t imagine going on by myself. And I want him to be the one. I can barely believe he’s real. If he was a prophet, he’d have crowds following him. I’ve never seen so much quiet power reside inside any one person, and mind you, I knew powerful wizards galore, up close and personal. His power is not the flashy kind that turns heads, but is like a solid, unbreakable force that dwells inside him, ready and up to any collision. He’s… magnificent. And I so want to lean closer and taste those words of hope on that soft mouth… perhaps surrender all my troubles to that incredible smile and have myself wrapped in those soothing hands. I’m desperate for contact, desperate to fall apart and let go, desperate to give in…

“I want to…”

_JesusMerlin_ , stop, Draco, you tired fool, stop! What on Earth?!

“I _would like_ to take you up on your offer and begin the treatment.”

Even when I should clearly be running. Barely another save there. Merlin, what’s _wrong_ with me?!

He doesn’t reply anything at first, just tilts his head gently and observes me carefully, and then nods subtly, as if he reached a conclusion.

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you? I doubt that you can make a well thought out, solid decision in your current state. You need sleep. Given the state you’re in, I can’t have you spending another nightmare-riddled night. You could hurt yourself. You’re going to have to stay here – and give me your answer when you’re well rested. If you are still of the same opinion then, I will tell you a bit more about how we’ll proceed.”

Before I can object in my muddled state of mind, he gently pushes my shoulders backwards onto the pillows he literally charms out of nowhere, and suddenly my whole body is resting on that ridiculously comfortable sofa, and it’s the most incredible, airy feeling ever. It’s like I’m floating on a cloud, and my eyes are nearly closing already. I make one last attempt to focus on his face, only to see him smile gently:

“You’re in for a relaxing night, Mr. Malfoy. This sofa has been charmed by my Uncle Bill, the Senior Curse-Breaker at Gringotts, to keep all malicious spells and nightmares at bay, and I keep it here only for emergencies like yours. Sleep tight. I want you well rested, and we’ll talk when you’re awake again. I’ll watch over you.”

The last thing I remember is the feeling of his warm hand covering mine, and another hand gently sweeping across my brow: “Sleep.”

And I did.


	3. Chapter 3

This… is the most heavenly feeling ever. Every muscle in my body is relaxed, warm, and free of pain, and my head is wonderfully empty of pressure and sort of… clean. It feels as if the black, soaking cloud of depression that has been hanging over my head for the last few months is suddenly gone, and the steely halo of nervous tension that had given me a constant dull headache has lifted, and I can breathe deeper. I don’t want to open my eyes yet. I want to enjoy these moments of freedom for as long as I can. This is… _perfect_. I want to keep this feeling. I want to keep waking up like this… so that probably means I have to do this… this therapy thing. At least I have _him_ to help me.

Hugo.

God, he’s stunning. I can admit that to myself now that I’m thinking straight again. Those piercing, charismatic diamond-blue eyes. That gentle, alluring, caring smile. Those wonderful magical hands. Another gorgeous Weasley in my life. But this one is mine. Fuck me if I know what I mean with that thought, but it feels right. I’m clear-headed for once, and nothing is more obvious to me than the fact that I need to keep him around. He is the right one… you know, for the job.

And no, it isn’t just because I find him ridiculously attractive. He is so much more than his looks. He simply breathes authority; he seems intuitive, kind and genuinely dedicated to his profession – they wouldn’t put just anyone in charge of their own department at… whatever age he is. And his glorious, golden magic… oh, don’t even get me started on that! It is almost palpable… so soothing and vitalizing all in one, extraordinary… simply out of this world. My thoughts keep flying back to the moment when our hands connected, and it surged through me like a warm tide, chasing away the numbing pain and bitter frost settled in my stiff, tired limbs, as if they were no match for such a magnificent force. If there is anyone who could chase my demons away, it is him. Yes, he is most definitely the right choice.

I’m just going to have to look past my unhealthy, uncalled for… infatuation. It’s not like I could do anything about it when our relationship is about to become professional, no… and I doubt that he would want me to! He is insanely good-looking – surely he must have suitors galore! Tons of them… probably female… probably half my age. He was Ron Weasley’s _son_ , for heaven’s sake… Merlin, when did I get so old?!

So, no. I had to find a way to keep my feelings under control and focus on my treatment. I was here to get better, and he could help. Right. Our relationship was going to be strictly professional.

Not entirely happy with the decision I made, but out of other options, I open my eyes to a world flooded with the golden light of the morning sun – and I instantly forget all my sensible, well-meant decisions. He’s still by my side as if he never left, his hands wrapped around mine, and his pretty fiery head is resting on the edge of the sofa. He’s once again sleeping. His stunning face is inches from my own, and the even breath escaping those soft lips teases my skin into goosebumps. He’s unbearably beautiful like this. My fingers are literally itching to sink into the silken, golden-red hair, and those lips… god help me. My kingdom for a touch of them....

Merlin’s screeching dragon… I was wrong. I’m still very much scrambled. There is _no way_ that feeling so attracted to someone that you’d actually contemplate stealing a kiss while they’re sleeping is normal. It’s a good thing I’ve already decided that I needed help…

And as if he could hear my thoughts, his magical eyes open, and for a moment we’re just staring into each other’s eyes. I’m… gods… he’s… I can’t even breathe right. And then he smiles. _JesusMerlin_ … well, goodbye, sanity. So much for my level-headed decision not to drool over him.

“Merlin’s grace, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” he speaks in that warm, sleep-addled voice that makes me buzz on the inside. “I haven’t really got an excuse. Just that you’ve been sleeping for nearly… forty hours now, and I’ve been by your side for most of the time.”

Forty hours!? I was out for nearly two days?! And he had been here with me, keeping me safe. Just like he promised. Something that feels like molten gold seems to spread inside my chest, and I suddenly feel ridiculously happy. Of course it’s too good to last.

He straightens up, and I have to stop my twitching hand from reaching out and pulling him back down onto the sofa because… oh, damn, because it feels as if he belongs by my side. That is possibly the most insane idea I’ve ever had, but my eyes follow him as if I’m hypnotised.

“I only left you when your son came to visit,” he rubs those elegant hands across his face again. “I needed to run some errands and, you know, offer my family proof of life – my dad had already threatened to come over and check my pulse. So I left you in your son’s care for a couple of hours, and I came back as soon as I could. You were asleep this whole time, but I wouldn’t call it wasted. I sat by your side to make some observations, but I suppose in the end my fatigue got the better of me,” he shrugs, but he sounds disappointed with himself. “I suppose it’ll be a miracle now if you decide to stay with me.”

I’d love to stay with him. Oh, I know perfectly well what he means, but you know… I’d love to stay. In any way he is willing to have me.

“I’ll stay. That is… after thorough consideration – and a most beneficial sleep that fully recovered my ability to pass judgement – I have decided to take you up on your generous offer. I would be very much willing to become your… charge. If you’ll have me.”

An absolutely beautiful radiant smile stretches his lips, leaving me breathless, and it was worth saying yes for that brilliant wonder alone.

“I’ll have you,” he says warmly, and when he looks into my eyes, my silly old heart begins doing some strange flip-flops that make me feel lightheaded. “In fact, I’m more than happy to accept you as my charge, a very special one. No more sleeping for me; I promise to take good care of you. In fact…”

He makes a small booklet whoosh into his hand with such a fast surge of invisible magic that I have to employ all my schooled coolness to stop my jaw from dropping onto the ground. Clearly, nonverbal spells are another one of his specialties.

“… we can start right away. Nothing too sophisticated for the first time, I don’t want to scare you away. Just a few questions to break the ice and see where to head next.”

Damn. I suppose I’ll have to…

“No… don’t. I mean, you don’t have to,” he says quickly when I make an attempt to get up. “You can keep lying down if you prefer. I’m afraid the charms on this sofa are only fully activated when one is sleeping, but it’s still pretty comfy for a sofa, and you look as if you can use all the rest you can get. Besides, people tend to give me more straightforward answers when they’re comfortable,” he smiles, and I collapse back into a lying position with such speed it’s embarrassing. Oh, I’m just so ridiculously grateful that I don’t have to get up just yet. This is so unbelievably nice. The comfortable sofa. That pleasant buzz of warmth and energy flowing through my body. His proximity. Oh, yes, I’ve got more than one reason not to want to move. I feel those blue orbs on me, and when our eyes meet, he smiles kindly.

“You know, I noticed something, when I was observing you in your sleep – I wasn’t actually sleeping near you the whole time, imagine that. For the first thirty or so hours, you slept like the dead, no moving whatsoever – in fact, I made it my business to check for your breath regularly, as it wouldn’t be the first time that patients had problems taking their next breath due to extreme exhaustion. And you, Mr. Malfoy, were one of the most extreme cases I’ve ever seen. My guess is you’ve only ever slept when you’ve medicated yourself, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I admit, and right now, I’m not feeling too proud of myself. I was a fool not to seek help sooner – any, well, fool can see that. I suppose I was too tired and my judgement was too clouded to even make that call. “I’ve taken Sleeping Draught, mostly. I’ve been making it myself, and sometimes…”

My voice disappears. I doubt I’ve ever felt stupider in my life.

“The Draught of Living Death?” he guesses correctly, and I nod with a knot in my throat.

“I guessed as much,” he nods thoughtfully and makes a note into his little booklet. “The deadly pallor, the loss of concentration during our conversation… You’re a skilled potioneer, your son tells me, so I know you were aware of the effects and consequences. I can only suppose you were desperate.”

There is no judgement in his voice, not even surprise, just a simple acceptance of fact, as if he genuinely understands how bad it can get, and my relief is such that the words just pour out of my mouth before I could stop them:

“Yes! You see, it was the only thing that worked in the end. Complete oblivion, that’s what I was after. Anything less than that…”

I swallow. In the brilliant golden light of the sunny morning it was hard to imagine the nightly horrors that plagued me – or maybe it was this charmed sofa of his that made it hard to recall, but I knew that it was bad, I _knew_ it. I just couldn’t put it into words. 

His warm hands find their way onto mine, and their gorgeous, soothing warmth is something I crave desperately. I turn my hands upwards so that our fingers intertwine, and I’m holding on for dear life. I don’t even care how embarrassing this all is. In this beautiful golden day, my fragile armour of defence is cracking, and I need _something_ – someone to hold me together before I shatter. And he takes on the job without holding back for a second.

“Close your eyes,” he orders in that warm, authoritative voice that expresses so well that he has my best interest at heart. I wouldn’t dare object. “Now breathe in… and out. Slowly. That’s it. In – and out. You’re doing very well, Mr. Malfoy. No one can reach you here, not through space or time. You’re safe, even from yourself. I promised to keep you safe, and that’s what I’m here for. That’s it, you’re doing wonderfully. Just hold on to me, it’ll be over soon.”

One of his warm hands is suddenly on top of my madly beating heart, and its calming effect is pure magic. I can feel the heat of his skin burning through my thin shirt, and the feeling is so reassuring and relaxing that my erratic heartbeat begins to slow its mad racing. I focus on his powerful, warm presence anchoring me, protecting me. I… oh, god help me, but I imagine him wrapped around me, shielding me, and I completely melt at the thought. I can’t lie to myself – his intoxicating presence is turning into a proper need of mine.

“How do you know… that this… your hands… how can you possibly know that it helps?” I finally blurt out when the worst of it is over. I’m fully prepared to babble to cover up for my embarrassment, because it is simply _overwhelming_. I can’t even imagine what a wimp he must take me for.

“Because it helped before,” he replies kindly. “You might have slept calmly through three quarters of your exhaustion, but in spite of the powerful charms on this bed, you got restless towards the end. I guessed that you were going through some immensely powerful experiences that my uncle’s charms barely kept at bay – and as soon as I placed my hand on yours, you relaxed considerably. You respond intensely to human touch, and perhaps even in your dream, it made a difference that you didn’t feel alone. You are doing perfectly well now, Mr. Malfoy. You can open your eyes now.”

I do so reluctantly, because this was just… oh, too bloody nice, but then I find those blue-diamond orbs already on me, and somehow, I no longer care about having my eyes closed. He’s just… Merlin, yes. I need to soak up whatever little of him I can get. 

“We won’t be long now,” he speaks with that reassuring smile. “Just a few more questions, and you’ll be free to go. I would very much like to determine what triggers those panic attacks of yours, because living alone – as your son tells me you do – they could be dangerous. At the very least, they must be debilitating – you’ve had two since you got here, and I imagine you would have had a few more if you weren’t under the protective spells. I’m fairly certain they don’t happen spontaneously. Have you had them for long?”

“Well…” I swallow thickly because this is it. I didn’t come here to lie. When I speak next, my voice is barely audible.

“I had a few when I was a child. The manor – my home – can be scary, and my father was not averse to a somewhat harsh upbringing. His disciplinary techniques included having me spend time in the dungeon, sometimes for hours at time. For a while, I was absolutely petrified of the dark. To this day, my worst memories are tied to the darkness.”

A particular memory jumps into my head, and I can’t help but think bitterly that perhaps that was how it all began.

“They made us look for a wounded unicorn in our first year at Hogwarts, Potter and I, did you know? Oh, I suppose you do. Everything about Potter is in about a million books. But you don’t know that I was scared stupid. I wasn’t half as brave as he was. Half of my empty bravado was just that. There was no real courage or confidence underneath. My father couldn’t help me there. Nor could my oafish friends. No one could. No one cared.”

It’s strange how after all these years, my throat is so easily choked by that same feeling of helplessness rushing in, that pervaded me back then. It seems to be the recurring theme of my life. I’m not much better off now than I was back then. I’m still too easily unsettled and too damn fragile.

“Uncle Harry would have defended you with everything he had… even though you were anything but friends. But you couldn’t have known that back then,” he says quietly. “You must have felt dreadfully threatened and exposed.”

“Yes… precisely.”

I close my eyes again to get a grip on myself, but instead I am ambushed by a shockingly sharp shard of memory – my 11-year-old self, facing the dark shape feeding on silvery unicorn blood with obscene slurping noises, and my fingers clutch Hugo’s hands with such force that I’m sure my nails must have left an imprint. When I speak again, my words are just a flood of anguish.

“I was on edge from the moment I set foot in that forest. I was extremely uncomfortable to begin with, and then to see _him_ … the creature he had become! You can’t possibly imagine… no one who hasn’t met him can. He had a bone-chilling presence that made one shiver. I didn’t know who … what he was, not at that moment, but he filled me with absolute dread. I ran…but I had nightmares and panic attacks for weeks after that, and it took me a while before I put it all behind me. I never told my parents - I was none too proud of myself for having run while Potter had stayed, you see. But I only thought I could run. There was nowhere I could hide.”

I can feel my heartbeat pick up its wild, unhealthy pace again, but I can’t stop the flood of emotion that is coming.

“ _He_ invaded our home, made himself comfortable there… took over my place of safety and childhood memories with his vile cronies and defiled it all. The Great Dining Hall was no longer a place where my parents hosted their glamourous parties that were the talk of the wizarding community for weeks. Instead, it was a place where torture and murder took place. So much fear… the air was pungent with it… it was hard to breathe… and god, all that screaming…”

My voice breaks once again. I don’t even know how I can talk about these things… I never told anyone, not even the Aurors. Perhaps there is enough magical protection around my makeshift bed to give me the courage to proceed… but I feel as if the source of my strength is in his warm, reassuring hands, firmly intertwined with mine. And now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

“I still cross our courtyard with my eyes closed most of the time. I once learned how to master my first broom there, on the green lawn in the centre, but I couldn’t bear to teach Scorpius in that place. All I ever see are the bodies, a pile of them, daily, and the Snatchers standing in the rain, burying them under the muddy patches of grass… and once the lawn was full, under the cobblestones. It was always raining back then. All my days from that period are cold and grey. They’re no longer there… the bodies, you know. The Ministry took care of that… gave them a proper funeral. Identified every last one of them… and their killers. Granger… your mother, helped them develop a charm that could reveal the identity of the dead through the remnants of their magic by touching their bones. My parents and I… we could testify to their end. We were all present for most of it; the Dark Lord would have it no other way. He enjoyed making us watch people break. From the pile of bodies, I had to pick my own…”

My breathing is now completely erratic, and it’s a good thing my eyes are closed, because I have a feeling that the world might be blurring at the edges. But suddenly, strong arms close around me like protective armour, shielding me from my misery, and I’m pulled up into his warm embrace. I literally dig my fists into the robe on his back not to have our embrace dissolve. He is stretched all around me like a wall of strength, magic, and protection, and his warm touch is the only true, solid thing keeping me together. Moments ago, I felt dreadfully dirty and nearly sick with horror and shame, but I’m safe now… safe and cherished.

I can’t even begin to imagine where that feeling comes from, but that’s what he makes me feel. In the darkness of his wonderful embrace, I let myself go. My shoulders are shaking with sobs and incoherent, muffled screams come out, as if my horror can find no human words. I’m making a huge mess of his robes, but I don’t care…. and he doesn’t seem to care one bit either. He’s holding me close, combing through my hair with his long fingers, whispering calming words of care and comfort into my ear, and gradually, the storm of emotions subsides. I have no idea where it came from. I never knew it was so close to the surface, so ready to erupt. I must have been more on edge than I was aware of. Merlin… if it is going to be this way every bloody time… I don’t even want to think about it.

Instead, I’m trying to get a grip on myself, and I’m getting there slowly with those strong arms around me and the wonderful comfort his embrace provides. Gods, this scent of him is pure gold. His embrace smells of clean robes, a hint of soap on warm skin, and something I can’t put into words. It makes me want to dig my fingers in it and own it. It’s a Hugo smell, I have no other words for it. He must have guessed that I’m in a better state now, but he doesn’t let me go yet, and I’m grateful for every prolonged moment of peace he gives me. Peace… my god, could this really be the way? I just came to realise that my shocking outburst has… cleansed me somehow, and I’m beginning to appreciate this idea of therapy. Will it feel like this once we’re done? Like I’ve forced it all out?

His hands are still sliding down my back soothingly – I wasn’t even aware he was doing that, but now that I know, I can barely suppress a purr. Merlin, he’s good. And then they slowly come to a stop at the small of my back, and the next thing I need to suppress is a disappointed whimper. I suppose it had to come to an end sometime.

“Better?” he asks me quietly.

I just nod, suddenly too mortified for words. Merlin’s holey pants, how do I even proceed after such a meltdown? But he moves me away from his body slightly, and though I hate the idea of letting go, I readily comply. I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough, thank you.

“I don’t suppose you have to hug every client you have?” I blurt out, and in the same moment, I realise that, in my desperate wish to bridge the awkwardness that was sure to come, I have clearly gone barking. I have no other explanation for the nonsense that just came out of my mouth. But he just chuckles softly.

“Oh, no, god forbid! I told you that you were special. Not everyone is comforted by an embrace. Everyone’s scars are different. I learned that lesson the hard way at 18, when I placed my hand on the back of a delusional Muggle patient, a former soldier that had spent months as a prisoner of war in one of the wars Muggles have going on. He had been severely tortured in the past, and during his episode, he didn’t see me for who I was. He genuinely believed I was one of his tormentors. He broke my arm in three places.”

Someone please pick my jaw from the floor. I can only stare.

“Well, if that didn’t put you off this profession…” I start, but my voice is trembling. He only shakes his head and looks at me solemnly with those thoughtful blue eyes.

“He didn’t know what he was doing. It wasn’t really his fault. We, the Weasleys, are very touchy-feely, and it’s not always something people are comfortable with, not even the healthy lot. For some, like yourself, the comfort of a human touch could be of essential importance, but his experiences made him connect human contact with hurt and humiliation. I needed to apply a different strategy, because he required help badly. You see, he had already sent one of his family members into the hospital in one of his fits, and he had been diagnosed as suicidal. So I had a rough night with the Skele-Gro, but I went back in the morning, obliviated him of the incident, and proceeded with more caution. It took us nearly half a year to figure out the right way. He was very well suited for a different kind of therapy. Art. There, on the wall… that is one of his works.”

Sometime during our conversation, he gently helped me lean back onto the sofa, cleaned us both with a non-verbal spell so casual that I barely noticed when my wet cheeks and messy robes turned dry and neat, and he was now gesturing to a small piece of wall not covered by bookshelves. For the first time, I notice about half a dozen small framed pictures – and they take my breath away. They are so intensely unsettling, ugly, and scary, they make me cringe. It’s like they each represent a window into a whole different reality, incredibly wretched and disturbing, that has no business hanging on the wall of this cosy, pleasant room. He walks over to the picture, removes it from the wall and brings it closer. It’s even more ghastly up close.

“This is a self-portrait,” he says quietly. “I asked him to make me a drawing, an art piece, a sculpture, whatever he could, of how he felt on the inside. This was the result. You see how his image is all torn, the mouth is stitched together, the eyes half blind, crying blood, and the head is crushed? This is how he felt. He made more, but this first one was the most precious. For the first time after his ordeal, he was able to express his inner devastation, and it brought him immense relief. We were also able to find him the right medication for his anxiety and sleeping issues, and he’s much better off today. He may never be the man he was meant to be before the war, but for now, he’s coping. And he knows he can always come back if he needs help.”

“That’s… amazing.”

I literally have no other words.

“It is, isn’t it?” he smiles beautifully, and my heart jumps at the unexpected thought that I want to be the reason for that stunning face to glow with pride and joy as well. But then I have another thought.

“You said you’ve obliviated him of the incident that gave you the injury. I know only authorised personnel are allowed to obliviate wizards and witches, and a record is made of every obliviation procedure in the same way as it is when underage magic is performed, but Muggle obliviation is not subject to such strict restrictions, as it is often an on-the-spot necessity. Why not wipe out all his negative experiences?”

He nods, and for the first time, the brilliance in his eyes seem to dull a little.

“Believe me, I’ve considered the thought more than once upon witnessing all that suffering. But there are complications. Surely you’re aware that I would have to invent a whole different story for the months of missing memories, and obliviate anyone who they came in contact with. In this particular case, the patient had a family, which he nearly wrecked, and a circle of army buddies that went through much same ordeal as he did. But there is more. The body remembers, Mr. Malfoy.”

He rubs his face with his hands, as if he wants to wipe tiredness and unpleasant thoughts from his head, but then picks up the explanation with the same calm tone:

“When a memory is especially traumatic, it tends to leave a trace. Imagine you were made to kneel down every time before the torture began – even years afterwards, the very act of kneeling might trigger a bodily reaction of extreme panic, shock, or a meltdown. The same goes for smells and sounds related to traumatic experiences – a specific taste, the feel of material – there are millions of little ways in which the body reminds a person of what they’ve been through. Those associations can be very powerful, and if the person had no memory to link them to, it would leave them with terrible confusion and a sense of going mad. There is no healing in that.”

A tremor goes through me because I realise… I _do_ know what he’s talking about. You see, every single prisoner of the Dark Lord’s whose interrogation I witnessed was initially suspended in the air before the torture began – it was the best way to keep them defenceless, disorientated, and to stop them from running. And to this day, I cannot witness the levitation spell without my stomach turning to stone and my whole body breaking in shivers. It is the one spell I never allowed in my house, and the one time I barked at Scorpius was when I stumbled upon him practising it on Rose. I couldn’t bring myself to explain to him why. I couldn’t even apologise; I ran like the coward I was and spent the rest of the afternoon sick as a dog in my bedroom. Merlin, Hugo was right. He didn’t even know how right he was.

“I imagine you know what I’m talking about,” he says softly, and I realise he’s been watching me this whole time. I just nod with a knot in my stomach, praying he won’t have me say it out loud, but he simply sighs and makes a note into his little booklets, before his hand slip on top of mine, and a familiar wave of comfort floods through me. Merlin, he’s got me addicted to this.

“Perhaps we should call it a day and continue at another time,” he proposes. “You’ve had quite a morning already. I don’t want to put you through unnecessary suffering and then send you home. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

But I’m already shaking my head. I need to know more. I need to know there is a way, if trying to forget isn’t the right one.

“I’m fine… or I will be. I want to know more. I want to know how…”

I’m just no good at speaking. It seems I’m too shaken to form proper sentences. He looks into my eyes with that intense stare, and after a long moment, he nods almost imperceptibly.

“From what I know of your difficulties so far, I believe you’re displaying the symptoms of what the Muggles refer to as post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens to a certain percentage of people who have been through a traumatic event or even a prolonged period of extreme pressure, violence, or abuse – psychological, physical or sexual. It doesn’t often occur – at least not in its most devastating form – in cases that were unintentional and unavoidable, such as incidents related to natural disasters or accidents. It is far more common in people subjected to trauma and abuse through the actions of a fellow human.”

He pauses to think, and then his blue eyes are on me as if he wants to make sure I hear his conclusion:

“It’s almost like human malice… knowledge that there was evil intent behind their ordeal, is the very thing that leaves such deep psychological damage. This condition I believe you’re suffering from is very commonly the result of engagement in warfare or severe cases of domestic abuse, where trust in one’s support network is utterly crushed. It results in feelings of helplessness, guilt, panic, intense anger, self-loathing, or severe depression – sometimes all of those. If untreated, it may escalate to cause sleeping disorders, episodes of self-harm and delusional frenzy, or bouts of extreme aggression, even towards one’s loved ones. In the long run, it makes a person unable to function. So people look for a way to cope.”

I’m… afraid to move. Everything inside me seems shaky and strangely dislocated, as if I’m physically going to crumble if I as much as move a muscle. His diagnosis of me is so clear and spot on that I’m genuinely shaken to the core. So far, he’s gotten _everything_ right.

“Repressing one’s memory is a common coping mechanism that may allow a person to function temporarily, but in a long run, it may be extremely unhealthy, and most of all, unsuccessful,” he once again speaks quietly. “The road to healing is not through forgetting, but through learning how to live with those experiences, managing the consequences of the trauma inflicted, and realising that above all, you survived and how strong that makes you. You may not feel like a winner much, Mr. Malfoy, but speaking in terms of evolution, you are one. You survived the most horrid experiences, and you are still here, given chances and options that those who didn’t make it will never have.”

Rationally, I know he is right. I survived. I managed to find a wife, father a son, continue my line, even enjoy my time with him. I am wealthy, have my freedom, I am still relatively young and in reasonably good health – I was by all standards successful. I should be happy. And yet, as soon as my Scorpius didn’t need me anymore, my life collapsed as if it had lost its purpose. My riches meant nothing, I lost my wife, who was as good a friend to me as any and a gentle companion, I didn’t know what to make of my freedom, I even let my health waste away. Was that really all there was for me? To father a son, so he could have everything in life that I couldn’t? Will I ever feel as if I was meant to have more than that? I look into his eyes, silently pleading for answers, and from the sadness and understanding in his eyes, I can tell he knows how I feel.

“The human mind is a funny thing, Mr Malfoy. When in extreme danger and most threatening circumstances, it makes us feel we desperately want to live, but once we are given that chance, we often don’t know what to do with it. For someone with your experiences, that could mean living a half-life; life filled with fear, regret and mourning over the loss of what could have been, life they can see no meaning in and no purpose for – life they are not sure they deserve. You need to ask yourself, and answer honestly: are you such a person?”

God, he’s harsh. Harsh, and right. With all my shields down and my pretences melted, I can admit to myself that I am indeed such a person.

“I see you’ve already got an answer to that,” he says softly, but firmly. “You could either choose to continue your suffering for the rest of your life, paying a debt that doesn’t exist, or choose life, recovery and eventually, moments of happiness. Quitting is the easy way, but for some, the only way. I’m not here to pass judgement. But though I cannot promise you that life will be all roses once you’ve stepped on a path of healing – I can promise you that your half-life is over: this process will take all of you and make the most of you. Whatever choice you make, I need you to be sincere when you make it, or no therapy in the world can help you. If you choose to do this, you have to – consciously, and with all your willpower – choose life. Because you’ll have to make this choice not once, but every day for the rest of your life. You will never again take a single day for granted.”

He wants me to make a decision that feels like the hardest one in my life, and yet I’ve never felt more fragile. Merlin help me… can I do this? Relive my memories, allow them back into my head from the world of dreams where they dwelled – loathed, feared, but impossible to banish? Can I clean myself of all the vile garbage festering at the bottom of my soul? Can I find the words to express the depth of my anguish... my absolute dread... my helplessness and all that self-loathing... my immense guilt… and pour all the toxic mess out to the redheaded angel by my side watching me intensely with those heavenly blue eyes?

“Will you help?” I wheeze out, and I can barely recognise my own voice. I sound about a million years old.

He leans forward as if he wants to make sure he got his message through, and for once I don’t have the strength to fight his incredible magical allure. I simply let myself drown in the precious gems of his eyes. His rich, dark voice reaches me, and it’s enough to make me fall under his hypnotic spell.

“I will be with you every step of the way, even if I have to push all my other cases aside. I will fight for you with all my magic, skill and knowledge, and drag you back from the doorsteps of death if I have to, if you decide to do this… Mr. Malfoy.”

God, he’s gorgeous. And completely overwhelming. I can’t take my eyes of him. The air between us is practically crackling with our mingling magic, and the way I want to… _need_ to yield to him sends wave after wave of shivers down my spine. My trust in his abilities is absolute. He’s simply… magnificent. And I’m… god help me, I don’t even want to think it. I don’t need a broken heart on top of everything else.

“When… how do we begin?” I finally hear myself blurt out, still far from sounding like my usual self, but it earns me that blissful, radiant smile, and I feel like I’ve done the right thing. Oh, this better work. It has already shattered me beyond belief.

“First, you need to give me some time to put all my observations from today and whatever notions your son has given me into your personal file,” he speaks, and at least for a moment, his solemn expression is gone, and he smiles enthusiastically. “My Uncle Harry would call it “building a case”, but the truth is, it is easier for me to have complete oversight and see the subtler connections once I have it all in one place, properly annotated and organised.”

But of course. Granger’s son. No surprise there.

“I will call your son now to escort you back home, and keep you under a watch for a while,” he says determinately. “We can’t risk your condition escalating, and I’m told that your problems are somewhat… less pronounced, when he’s around,” he smiles kindly. Merlin, what _has_ Scorpius told him about me?! Oh, I reckon it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. I should stop feeling so bloody embarrassed around him all the time; he’s a professional after all. It’s just… oh, I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m hopelessly drooling over him on the inside. I simply find him what Rose Weasley would probably describe as “hotter than hell”. Those Weasleys… seriously. But they do have a way of getting to the point, don’t they?

“I will contact you to schedule our next meeting as soon as I’ve designed a more refined approach suited to your needs. It shouldn’t be more than a day or two.”

“A day or two?! But that’s…”

It sounds like forever. I realise that I dread the thought of going back to the manor. It’s like a crack has been opened in my armour, and I’m afraid that the darkness of that place will seep underneath it and poison my sanity somehow. The very thought of going back feels wrong.

“If I may… why do you still stay there?”

The bluntness of the question shocks me. I look into those bright eyes and wonder if he isn’t by any chance a skilled Legilimens? How on earth can he possibly guess with such accuracy what’s going on in my mind?

“I can see you’re troubled at the thought of returning to the manor… uncomfortable, even,” he explains quietly. “And it makes perfect sense. The manor is a place that has clearly given you your darkest experiences. Why would you still want to stay there?”

God, he’s merciless. But we talked about honesty… and I have to do this. Giving him an answer shouldn’t really be that hard.

“It’s home,” I tell him quietly. “It’s the only home I have. And…”

I just realised what else is there, and the thought startles me.

“And as long as I live there, someone remembers.”

He nods as if my words make perfect sense.

“You’re paying your quiet penance to the victims, aren’t you? You don’t think you are one.”

Of course I’m not a bloody victim! I stood there and witnessed them being tortured and murdered and did nothing! I was even made to take part in it – who in their right mind would possibly see me as a victim?! I’m trying to find eloquent enough words to say that, but my face must betray me, because his blue eyes flicker with fire, and there’s a slight undertone of that flame in the tone of his words when he speaks.

“Were you there by your own choice, then?”

“Well, no… of course not. But…”

“Would you have fled if you stood any chance at all?”

“Yes, god, yes. But my parents…”

“Could you, in complete honesty, say that you never willingly participated – let alone enjoyed – any of the macabre things that you witnessed in the manor during the Voldemort’s reign, and you only took part in them because you feared for your life and the life of your parents?”

“Who in their right mind could possibly willingly participate in such monstrosities?! Enjoy it, even?!” I subconsciously realise that I’m shouting, but I can’t, for the love of god, stop. “I was not cut out to witness all that screaming, begging, broken bodies and minds! I bloody vomited every time I had to be present for the first couple of weeks. They mocked me, teased me that I’d be next, and taunted my parents for bringing up such a weak child! They threatened to hurt them if I didn’t prove my allegiance to the Dark Lord and their cause. They intimidated and tormented me in a thousand little ways every moment of the day, you have no idea…”

“Then, how are you not a victim?” he says quietly. “Everything about you screams that you are. Even my uncle and my parents could see that you were not there voluntarily, how very scared you were. How are you not a victim, Mr Malfoy?”

“Because…”

And then it dawns of me.

“Because you survived,” he completes my thought, and I can only nod, out of breath and out of words. I’m still alive; that is my fault, my complicity, my biggest sin. I should have died. I would have needed to be on that pile of bones to be one of them.

“And this is something we are going to be working on,” he says simply, and his eyes are serious, even worried. “You need to see yourself for who you are. Accept it, and stop punishing yourself. We need to determine what is the driving force behind those terrible nightmares of yours, and I’m not going to lie: this might be terribly hard on you. I will need your cooperation, and I will definitely need your worst memories for that.”

And what better place for those to come back to life than in the place that gave life to them? Especially now, when I’ve willingly decided to let them come… So, back to the manor it was. Merlin, this might just be the end of me.

But then genuine concern crosses his face, and he leans forward, as he always seems to do when he wants to make a point: 

“But your safety and well-being are my primary concern, Mr. Malfoy. Always remember that. If you’d rather stay here for some time to recover, you only need to say a word. You are welcome to stay as long as you need to. However much we are interested in speeding this process up, it won’t do to violently shatter whatever mental defences you’ve built in the years after the war; the results might be too unpredictable. This is a gradual process, and it takes its time. Therefore…”

“No… thank you for your generous offer, but no,” I interrupt him, even though everything inside me is loudly screaming in protest. The truth is, I want to stay in this place of peace and comfort so badly it hurts. The need to stay near this stunning young man whose enthusiasm, skill and dedication leave me awestruck and fill me with trust and hope is almost physical. Yet I have to do this. I can’t quit before I’ve even started – and now that I’ve made my decision, I’m anxious to go through with it. He was right; I can’t go on living this half-life.

“I have to return some time. I can’t stay away permanently anyway… and that place is still my home. I will be all right – I have been so far, haven’t I? I’ll be sure to let you know if anything out of the ordinary occurs – which it won’t if you’re sending Scorpius with me. Please let me know as soon as you can when we can proceed. I wish…”

My voice fails me for a moment, but then I somehow find the strength to proceed.

“I wish to put it all behind me. I want to get better.”

One of those radiant smiles that take my breath away lights up his pretty face once more, and his fingers slip around my hands again, so wonderfully warm and full of strength, I nearly melt on the inside.

“Then let me help you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Scorpius and I apparate just behind the large wrought-iron gate because I’m desperate for some fresh air. The garden of the manor is the only place here that holds no tainted memories for me, and I’ve always enjoyed its lush, relaxing beauty. But every step I take towards the back entrance of the manor seems to weigh a tonne. I so don’t want to be here, and the thought of crossing the threshold and letting the heavy stone walls close around me makes my chest feel constricted. I already have the desperate urge to open my mouth and ask Scorpius to take me back. But I can’t do that to him. I can’t make him worry about me more than he already does.

I glance at my son nervously, anxious that he will pick up on my discomfort and begin fussing at me, but he is uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful. Hugo asked to speak with him in private before we left, and I wonder if what he said has anything to do with my son’s subdued behaviour. He’s normally practically bouncing as he walks, chattering about everything and nothing, noticing a million interesting details around him, and simply living for the moment, clearly happy with his place in life. But not today. He’s working through something in his head. I know my son well enough to see that, and I know it won’t be long before he comes out with whatever is bothering him. That boy can’t keep anything inside to save his life.

“Father… I was wondering… would you be willing to show me?”

Show him?

“There’s this old Pensieve in Grandmother Cissy’s boudoir… I was wondering if you would be willing to show me what has been bothering you so much?”

No. No, no, no, no, no! I’m shaking my head before he even finishes, and a cold shiver runs down my spine at the mere thought of my precious, innocent son witnessing any of the horrors that took place in those rooms he considers home, seeing his father in a role that is… no, _god,_ no. I’d rather die than have him witness it!

“No. Merlin, no, Scorpius. Don’t make me.”

I barely choke that out, and my distress must be extremely obvious, because an actual look of panic crosses his face before he quickly pushes me onto one of the benches without saying another word. Not a moment too soon. I don’t think my legs would have held me much longer. He pulls my head onto his chest and just holds me, whispering quiet, soothing words and apologies.

“Merlin, I’m sorry, father. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just… it would be so helpful to know what you’re dealing with, to see what it is that is making you so miserable. But of course I wouldn’t make you… how could I? It’s not like I really _want_ to see it, you know,” he shudders, “but I suppose it would make it easier to understand. But perhaps… if not me… would you show Hugo?”

Hugo. I close my eyes and try to think. It’s such a gigantic mess in my scared, panicked brain at the moment that I can’t tell if that is a good idea or not. I know for a fact that I don’t want Scorpius to see it – never, but Hugo… he’s seen it all. He would know what to make of it. He might understand, it might be helpful… But Merlin, to expose myself so horribly in front of that young man for whom I was beginning to feel a lot more for than just professional respect? I don’t know… I don’t know if I can go that far.

“Perhaps… one day,” I say feebly, knowing that my son wouldn’t push it if I gave him an answer he could work with.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, and I can hear that he’s content with his small victory.

“Would you like to go inside now?” he asks gently, and I look at him with complete lack of understanding. Going inside is what I’ve been desperate to delay; how could he possibly think…?

But of course. For the first time, I realise that for him, the manor bears none of the haunting memories I find inextricably embedded in these grey walls. He cannot hear the screams of the tortured in the howling of the wind, cannot see the white of the bones in the cracks between the cobblestones. He doesn’t pick up the subtle, ever-present smell of blood, the low-hanging stink of fear and malice, the suffocating smell of despair. For my son, the manor is simply a home, the beautiful, grand palace of his ancestors where he grew up happy and protected. It’s not the place that is dark. It’s me.

“Yes… I suppose so. I’m sorry for startling you. I’ve been a tad off lately. It’s just… this place…”

“I know,” he says quickly, and he looks at the floor, squirming. “I’m so sorry. I… I forgot. Hugo told me that you might be… a bit unstable for the next few days. He said that beginning your therapy is bound to rattle you... and that I needed to keep you closely monitored when you got home because this is where most of your bad memories took place. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. He would have my head on a platter for this. He’s absolutely fierce when it comes to his patients.”

For some reason, those words make my blood flow faster, as if even from a distance the thought of Hugo caring can take the edge off my anxiety. Somehow, I feel a little better already.

“He’s very considerate,” I say, careful not to reveal too much of the awe and admiration the handsome redhead inspires within me. What good could possibly come of that?

“He’s the best,” Scorpius says simply. “I’ve never met someone so talented and dedicated. He’s absolutely brilliant at what he does, and he _never_ gives up on anyone. And he likes you,” he says smugly – and how is it that those simple words practically turn me crimson?!

“Surely you can’t tell as much… after a mere two days… which I mostly slept through anyway… How could I have possibly made an impression? Oh, I suppose he’s the type that likes everyone,” I mumble, suddenly not knowing where to look or what to do with my hands so as not to give myself up.

“I’ve known Hugo since he was eleven, Father,” my unruly child says with the same smooth smugness, “and I’ve never known him quite as… enthusiastic as he seems now. I dare say he’s quite passionate about you… that is, about your case.”

Oh, this evil child I’ve spawned! He must have smelled somehow that I’m anything but indifferent towards the gorgeous redhead, and he’s grilling me with no mercy. Still, there is no stifling the silly… oh, perhaps not silly, but certainly less-than-distinguished smile that curves my mouth, and it feels like the first genuine one in an eternity or so. I dare say I’ve never had such a frivolous conversation before, and I certainly didn’t expect to have one with my son! Oh, my, what have I got myself into!

“You like him, don’t you?”

Straight to the heart, that’s my Scorpius; he knows no other way. And the truly terrible part is that he would know if I attempted a lie. Merlin, I should have known better…

“He’s… exceptional,” I say carefully, but upon seeing my son’s bright smile, I quickly realise that I hardly did a good job aiming for indifferent with my choice of words! “That is… it is extraordinary to see someone so young so dedicated to his profession and so… caring,” I finally blurt out. Oh, Merlin’s limping dog, I think I might be ready to take my chances with the ghosts and darkness of the manor! This conversation needs to come to an end, or I will soon betray myself. My hopeless babbling certainly speaks volumes about how flustered I’ve become!

“I think I might be ready to go inside,” I get up, trying to salvage what little is left of my dignity. “It’s getting chilly out here, and I think I’d like a cup of tea.”

“Some ginger tea, perhaps?” my son inquires innocently, and upon my horrified, miserable look bursts into a loud unabashed laughter. Honestly… it’s going to be a long couple of days, I can tell already.

~

But whatever iota of carefree joy I carry inside, it quickly dissipates once the heavy door of the manor closes behind us with a decisive _thunk_ , and the bright, cheerful light of the gardens abruptly disappears, reduced to nothing but a memory. Whatever natural light reaches the manor entrance, it is solemnly filtered through the manor’s many stained-glass windows. I used to think it was grand and it certainly created interesting effects, but these days the subdued light creates too many shadows for my liking. The manor is mine now; I would be well within my rights to give it a makeover, but… quite honestly, the thought makes me uncomfortable. I can’t stand the idea of workers tumbling about with their tools and their curiosity, and this place simply has too many secrets to find. No, I will not go poking at this sleeping dragon. It is I who has to change, the manor is… just stone and material, however antique and regal.

But, my god, the heaviness of this place brings me down! The thick velvet drapes, and crystal vases, the gilded frame portraits of my frowning, haughty ancestors, all that cold polished marble… like a gravestone… suddenly I feel as if I need air desperately.

“I think I’d like that tea now,” I gasp, and I can’t be bothered walking – I can’t even manage a warning – I simply apparate straight to the breakfast parlour on the south side of the building, the one room my mother had furnished according to her refined, delicate taste. Sweet Merlin… so much better… I grip the back of an elegant, handmade chair for support and inhale all the air and brightness of this room.

The atmosphere in here is drastically different from the gloomy aura of the rest of the house, where the time seemed to stop centuries ago. The large French windows are overlooking the gardens, and the transparent golden-hued curtains are flowing in the breeze, making the room look flooded with sunlight and so airy that it instantly reminds me of the brightness of Hugo’s cheerful, cosy place. I want to be back so badly it hurts.

“Father! Oh, here you are, Father! Oh, but you gave me a start! At least warn me next time, I’m not fifteen anymore, you know!”

Even through my laborious breathing I manage a wheeze out a laughter. My beloved 24-year-old son has no idea what it means to feel a million years old. I hope he never will.

“I apologise,” I murmur, still fighting to steady my breath. “I might have had a bit of a crisis. It’s all those walls, you see… How did you manage to find me so fast?”

How did he manage indeed? There are well over a hundred rooms in the manor, and I could have been in any one of them!

“I might have taken Hugo’s advice and put a little tracking charm on you,” he mumbles, looking positively embarrassed. “It’s for your own safety only, I assure you,” he adds quickly. “He warned me that you might collapse at some point, and he seemed so honestly concerned about your health that I didn’t think it would do any harm… and look at you, giving me a fright like that! Well, I suppose I _could_ take it off, if you insist, but since it’s proven useful already…”

I shake my head. If anything, my trust in Hugo’s judgement is even stronger after this little incident. If he thinks that I need a tracking charm on me, however inconvenient and mortifying this is, then I’m ready to concede to walk around with one. After all, I’ve all but collapsed and had a near-panic attack – all in the few minutes since I apparated home.

“Hugo is… wise beyond his years,” I blurt out, and literally bite my tongue to keep from launching into an inquiry that would provide me with more information on the stunning young man – and reveal to my son just what an old, smitten fool I’ve become. But he’s already looking at me with those bright silver eyes, and after he looks to the side with _a very Malfoyian_ smirk, I know he’s got me figured out.

“He’s _ages_ wiser than his 22 years – well, nearly 23, really. I suppose it comes from dealing with all that sorrow… but I reckon he wouldn’t have it any other way. He used to be immensely popular in school, given his looks, talents, and kindness – there was this incident involving a girl literally sneaking to his bed naked; Merlin, you can’t imagine what a fuss it was! – but I can’t ever recall him really seeing anyone for long. I think Lorcan Scamander was the last one he dated for longer than two weeks,” he says frowning as if trying to remember, but I can barely suppress a shiver. Lorcan… that’s a male name. Wasn’t that the name of one of the sons of that oddball, Luna Lovegood? Merlin, could he really be into men? I have to bite my tongue again not to blurt _that_ out.

“Yeah, but that was about year ago, and I haven’t seen him with anyone other than one-night-stands since. He doesn’t go clubbing much, either. Rose barely manages to drag him along every once in a blue moon, and he only ever picks up strangers, preferably Muggles – he hates being just a trophy. But as Ron Weasley’s son – no doubt of parentage there as you might have noticed – it’s hard to avoid it. He seems to have a thing for blonds, though, Rose noticed…”

He throws me a sly, meaningful look worthy of a true Malfoy, as if he could see my heart beating faster in my chest, and clearly satisfied with the sight of my flaming face, he continues smugly:

“… and mostly he leaves with men. But so far he has yet to find someone who could compete with his job – that is one dedicated redhead! The only thing that ever came close to his love for his job is his love for Quidditch. You should see him play! He could easily go professional. He prefers playing against his Uncle Harry; I imagine hardly anyone else is his match these days. But other than that… His father always mumbles that he should “live a little”, but he just shrugs it off and laughs: _“But so many people need me…”_ – and that’s the end of that. Everyone is really proud of him, I guess. Even in a family of over-achievers, he’s quite something.”

“Yes,” I mumble with a knot in my throat, afraid to look anywhere but the floor. “He certainly is.”

“Oh, but I nearly forgot,” my evil child says. “We’re here for the ginger tea.”

~

All things considered, it’s been a fairly nice afternoon in the company of my son – Merlin, have I missed his bright presence! – but now the darkness begins to crawl in through the large windows, and there is no escaping the long shadows. My heart grows heavier by the moment, and the mere thought of returning to my lonely, dark bedroom for the night fills me with a feeling of discomfort and slowly burgeoning dread.

Partly because I’ve made a decision: no more sleeping potions for me, come what may. Last time I took something, I didn’t care if I lived or died, and I never want to feel so desperate again. It’s not like they worked very well anymore, and if I took too little, they might contribute to my nightmares; that was one of their well-known side effects. Hugo’s words about repressing one’s memories not being the right way still resonated in my mind… and I willingly chose dread over oblivion. Of course, I am absolutely scared stupid.

“Father, would you like me to stay with you tonight?” my wonderful, observant son offers, and I realise what a poor job of hiding my nervous fidgeting I’m doing.

_Yes!_

I nearly blurt that out, but then I remember… and it feels as if someone just poured ice-cold lead down my spine: in the last of my fits, I hurt my wife – what if something of the sorts happens when my son is near?! I’d rather finish myself than put a finger on him… so no, as much as I’d love to have him near, that is not an option.

“No, there’s no need,” I say as coolly as I can manage, desperate to keep my nervous tremor out of my voice. “I’m quite tired, I’m afraid. I’ll retire to bed soon, I think.”

“But…”

“You’ve still got your tracking charm on me, yes? Well, that should do. I don’t imagine I will come to much harm in my bedroom alone, and if I do…”

There is no need to finish that sentence. We both know he is bound to find out about it. With the amount of ruckus I’m likely to cause with my thrashing about, it would be surprising if someone in bloody Russia doesn’t find out about it!

“Very well, then,” he agrees grudgingly, and I can tell he’s not entirely happy with the current state of affairs. “Hugo did say I shouldn’t really attempt to mollycoddle you too much, it might irritate you further,” he mumbles unhappily. “I’m only supposed to make sure you’re safe.”

“Well, that’s… considerate of him,” I attempt to say as matter-of-factly as I can manage, but who am I kidding? I can barely hide my awe at how well the redhead already seems to know me, and I have to try hard to hold back a silly smile at the thought that he cares. But there’s no stopping the treacherous warmth spreading through my chest at the memory of that beautiful smile and intense sapphire eyes.

“He’s that kind of guy,” Scorpius says sweetly. “A Weasley. Once they care about someone, they’re unstoppable. Let’s get you to bed, then!”

So much for not mollycoddling me.

~

I’ve been clutching the sheets in my fists ever since the last of the candles was extinguished. If I could hope to get any rest – or any comfort from them – I would have left them on, but they weren’t likely to contribute to any of that: falling asleep was already a precarious affair, and the flickering of their flames made me edgy.

But now the darkness of the room presses down heavily on me, and it’s like I’m eleven again, scared and lonely in my oversized bed, covered up to my eyes and waiting for the unknown dread to roll over me from the darkness surrounding me. Only, my dread has a face now, and not just one, but many, and it was my own actions who transformed the imaginary horror into a real one. More than ever, it feels as if there is no escaping my nightmares. How long can I stay awake? I’m absolutely exhausted, and even though the night is anything but chilly, my body feels stiff and icy, as if my fear constricts me like a tightening noose.

Even though the darkness in the room is nearly absolute, I still close my eyes, as if this pitiful, childish action – if I can’t see them, perhaps they can’t see me – is the last line of defence from the horrors I’m desperate to avoid. I try not to feel the darkness pulsating all around me, waiting like a pack of hungry wolves for me to succumb to sleep so it could have a piece of me. But it is all in vain. There is nowhere to run… and suddenly _I can see the darkness._ It’s _my_ darkness, the darkness of the poorly-lit corridor I find myself in. I have a sinking feeling that I’ve been here before, but even so… the icy-cold dread curling around me like an angry, pitch-black sea fills me with a desperate urge to run. So I do.

I turn around and stumble as fast as I can down the shady corridor, desperate to get away from the chilly, vicious shadows scraping at my neck from behind, and my sinking heart telling me that it is all in vain, that my legs, turning into lead with every step, are taking me straight to that place frozen in time that strips my soul bare. There is to be no mercy for me; I can’t ever turn back. So I struggle along, nearly blind with panic and anxiety at the turn of every corner, fearing, anticipating, until suddenly… I hit the void. And everything freezes, just like I knew it would. My body, the time, even the darkness, piling behind me like a frosty, threatening dark cloud, about to devour me. I’m here. Exactly where I was destined to be.

I can already feel the hairs on my neck rising as a frigid drop of perspiration trickles down my spine. It’s like pure evil is watching me with merciless, unblinking eyes. Any moment now, there would be this thick, putrid presence breathing onto my bristling skin, slowly closing in on me from all sides, filling the air until it was all I could smell, and my lungs would hurt from its sickening poison… It wouldn’t stop until my chest ached with its tremendous weight, and I would either give in and let it crush me, or let the panic take over and start my hopeless fight for a chance to breathe. The malevolent presence crushes me down, and my struggle for the thick, suffocating air makes my ears buzz with effort – but suddenly… something is different.

The petrifying silence is no longer absolute. For the first time, I pick up a low murmur, barely more than a hum that seems to emanate from the darkness itself. It’s like the sound is leaking from the gutter of the black void surrounding me and its low murmur gradually becomes a proper rumble. It’s as if the darkness came to life with a thousand voices, and they resonate inside me as if my insides were made of jelly. I begin shouting… _something_ in reply, and somehow it feels as if I should know… I _do_ know what they’re saying; only I can’t for the love of god comprehend it on any level of consciousness, I can’t remember it, and I can’t repeat it. I can only shout my reply until my voice is raw. It’s an absolute madness, the end of all sanity.

But then, it’s as if a tiny bright crack has opened in the darkness, and a new voice reaches me, warm, golden, strong enough to guide me, and I turn my head around frantically, like a wild beast, desperate not lose it.

“-oy… Draco… wake up… I need you to wake up… can you do that for me? That’s it… just follow my voice… there you go, I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

My eyes pop wide open, and at first there is no comprehension – just immense relief that I’ve once again made it back, that I’ve once again managed to save myself from that wretched place where I nearly disintegrated completely. And then I realise that I’m staring at the sapphire heaven of Hugo Weasley’s eyes, that I’m cradled in his arms, that he’s keeping me close and safe. He came to get me, just like he promised. He gave me his word to drag me back from the doorsteps of death if he had to – and this was so much better. He came for me when I needed him most.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats in that beautiful… _most_ beautiful, comforting voice he has, and I notice that his gorgeous, fiery hair is flowing down his back, just like the first time I saw it. Lying like this, safely cradled in his arms and completely vulnerable, I blurt out the first thing on my mind, because I’ve somehow lost all my inhibitions. I can’t recall any boundaries. I need to tell him.

“You’re so beautiful. Your hair is… precious… like copper treasure… _aeribus_ … I love your eyes… and your voice saved me. I just followed it… and it led me back to you.”

He doesn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered by the outburst of my feelings; he merely smiles tenderly, and his long fingers brush a wet strand of my hair off my face.

“Glad I could be of help. I’m happy you were willing to follow.”

“They were different this time… my dreams,” I choke out with sudden urgency, because I’ve just realised that I only have precious few moments before they fade away. I can’t even be bothered with eloquence. “There was not just that deadly, paralysing stillness… well, there was darkness… there always is… suffocating, malevolent… it tries to… possess me… take me over… and I fight it… I always fight… but this time… this time there was noise… like a whisper… rumble… voices… hundreds of them. All saying something as one… whispering… demanding… only I can’t recall what… and I was trying to tell them something… shout it, even… and I can’t recall that either…”

I look at him, feeling helpless and frustrated, and barely clinging to the edge of my sanity I wonder if he can make heads or tails of my scrambled words… if he even believes them…

“Help,” he says after a long moment of silence, as if he had to decide whether to share that with me. “They were screaming for help. That’s what you kept saying in your nightmare.”

_Yes!_ Yes, I remember that now; how could I not remember?! _Help, help, help, help us, help!!!_ In the same desperate, pleading tone over and over again. Merlin, how could I forget?!

And I said…

“Forgive me.” _Please, please, please forgive me._

My darkness wasn’t fear. It was guilt.

~

Half an hour later, I’m sitting in the armchair by my bed, wrapped in a cosy, warm blanket and clinging to a piping hot cup of tea – yes, ginger, don’t bother asking, it’s always been my favourite, and it has nothing to do with… oh, bugger. I can’t believe I’ve said all those things to him! About his hair… and his eyes… oh, someone murder me! But his voice did save me, there’s no denying that – and I suppose I can live with a bit of dented dignity.

I’m only just beginning to thaw when I notice Hugo having a quiet, yet animated conversation with my son in the corner of the room – yes, the animated part, that’s all Scorpius, Hugo is as calm and as in charge as ever.

“Fine,” my son finally agrees grumpily and loudly enough for me to catch his words. “But promise to call me as soon as something is up! Hugo – _promise!_ ”

It’s good to know my son is not only attempting to terrorise me.

“I promise,” Hugo says, and there seems to be a bit of laughter in his voice. “Now go to bed and let me handle this.”

As soon as my son is gone, he approaches me, and just like that very first time I set my eyes on him, he takes my breath away. I can’t help thinking that I want to get better just to keep seeing him.

“How are you?” he wants to know, and as he takes a seat near me, those astute eyes are taking in all of me, as if he is trying to determine the state of me as a whole.

“I’m… better,” I tell him, suddenly desperate to conjure some kind of apology for my stupid outburst. “Look, about earlier…”

“Never mind that,” he waves with his hand as if dismissing my apology, and smiles that radiant smile of his that makes everything all right… and makes me want to blurt out more nonsense. “You were very vulnerable, and please don’t feel awkward. I’m your Healer, believe me, I’ve had worse. Besides, you didn’t say anything you should be ashamed of… I suppose I should thank you…” his sapphire eyes twinkle naughtily, and I come all too close to blurting out _“And I meant every word.”_.

But suddenly his hands are around mine, and I have to bite back a moan. Why does his touch affect me so? He called me Draco, I suddenly remember… he called me by my given name when he brought me back, and I didn’t think it one bit odd. It fit.

“Do you have any idea why your dream changed, Mr. Malfoy?” he asks, suddenly all serious and professional. I shake my head, but it’s not because I’m out of ideas.

“Please, call me Draco,” I whisper, because Mr. Malfoy… just feels plain wrong after what happened today. I like the way my name sounds from his mouth. It’s like those soft lips shape around it, and he just breathes it out… god, I’m an old, wretched idiot! What on the devil’s earth is wrong with me?! How could I be so starved for closeness to this exceptional young man?! Are all his patients so clingy?

“Draco,” he says without any objection, and those blue eyes smile at me as if he’s perfectly comfortable with using my first name. It seems… natural somehow, almost as if he was calling me that in his mind already, and I cannot help but smile, stupidly exhilarated for no reason whatsoever.

“Thank you. I was thinking… perhaps it wasn’t just the dream that changed. Perhaps it was me.”

His blue eyes light up, and his smile is so soft and appreciative that my heart flutters madly in my chest. He doesn’t mean anything by it, I remind myself. He can’t help being so… so… _breathtaking._

“You read my mind,” he speaks warmly. “I imagine your dream changed _because_ you did. Can you think of anything that changed between the last time you’ve had it and tonight?”

“Well,” I swallow, because I’m afraid it’s going to come out awkward, “I remembered you telling me that there was no point in trying to forget… so I decided not to run. I didn’t take anything… no potion… I just let it come.”

“That was incredibly brave of you,” he says gently. “I can’t imagine how scared and alone you must have felt.”

_And desperate_ , I want to add. Desperate to get to the bottom of it, desperate for it to end. It’s been going on long enough. I had to find a way to end it… even if it meant the end of me. For the first time, I realise how tired of my suffering I’ve become, how badly I craved some peace of mind.

“And once you let yourself hear them… hear the voices… how did that make you feel?”

His hands are still wrapped around mine, making their comforting, soothing warmth seep into me. This is the only reason why I can do this. Still, I cannot look into his deep, penetrating eyes; I focus on our intertwined hands instead.

“It felt as if the darkness was made up of the voices all this time… and that I’ve made them so angry by refusing to hear them. It was as if they wanted to be acknowledged, wanted to be heard, wanted me to respond… as if I’ve been dumb… and cowardly all this time, not willing to face them… just running and fighting. And I wanted… Merlin, how I wanted to tell them how sorry I was… I let them down… I was too cowardly… but I couldn’t find the words. But the worst part is… if I could turn back time… if I knew back then how much my actions… my cowardice would come to haunt me… I know I’m too downtrodden to act differently. Back then, I so desperately wanted to live. These days… not so much anymore.”

I close my eyes in utter shame, and then force myself to look into his bright eyes because I need to see… I need to know what he thinks of me… it’s imperative. Will he judge me? Can he possibly understand? But then he shakes his head slowly, and my heart nearly stops.

“If you had done anything other than what you were _coerced_ to do, you would have ended up dead, possibly all three of you. You know that as well as I do,” he speaks softly, and there’s a tinge of true sadness in his voice now. “But it is easy for me to talk. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see what you had to endure. I speak rationally, but as cold as my father always thought you… Draco… an awful lot of your most important decisions spring straight from the heart. You regret… even now you do… you care. Someone heartless would never have to endure 25 years of nightmares.”

His beautiful blue eyes… so warm, intense and understanding… they seem to purify me. The longer I keep staring into them, getting lost in their sapphire depths, I feel as if there is hope for me to earn my reprieve. Merlin, could it be?

“I could show you,” I blurt out, and my voice is awfully shaky. “There’s this old Pensieve…”

I realise there are tears streaming down my face, but I no longer care. If I’m to be forgiven, someone should see the true depth of my sins. There could be no forgiveness for half-forgotten truths. He needs to stand where I stood, see what I saw, witness my cowardice, feel my fear, my self-loathing, the way I was clinging to hope even then, that somehow I could make it out of there alive if only I could endure the worst. Someone needs to see. Someone needs to share my burden… and be my judge and jury.

“Show me,” he says simply, and I nearly collapse, feeling equal parts relieved and absolutely flooded with horror.

~

I show him everything. Every last memory I can get ahold of, starting with the most benign one from the Forbidden Forest, all the way up to the horrors of the days in the manor. Viewing over twenty-five years of memories takes us nearly all night but neither of us is willing to stop. I’m fuelled by the strange desperate energy of a person who’s putting their every atom of strength into their last line of defence – and come hell or high water. He allows himself to be pulled into every one of my memories with a serious, dedicated face – and holding my hand. I insist on coming along. It’s my penance to see them all clearly once again, my last desperate plea. This pilgrimage through the darkness and sorrow of those days is my only chance for forgiveness, and I’d go through this hell on my knees to get there.

He emerges from every memory pale as a ghost, and I feel for him – god, yes, I do. The young people of today know nothing of the darkness of those days – and to be thrown straight into the heart of the horror… it takes a very special person to endure that willingly. This particular Weasley really is something else, and I can’t even put my admiration into words. Even though I can tell how shaken he is, he’s still determinedly clutching my hand, and his brilliant eyes are almost on fire with deep thought and the intense processing of such an enormous amount of overwhelmingly emotional impressions.

“I see what you meant about his bone-chilling presence,” he says thoughtfully when we return from my memory of the Dark Lord after he’d come back to his full power. “He has an aura of evil around him. He doesn’t wear it proudly, like your aunt… it’s like he’s made of it. Even the smell of him is… unnatural… poisonous.”

_Yes!!_ Yes, that’s exactly how I feel! Merlin, I never knew it would mean so much to me to have someone understand. I could simply hug him right now, but even the thought of it leaves me strangely dizzy and disorientated, and instead, I squeeze his hand tightly and ask: “Are you ready for another one?”

And here we go again… on and on… it seems as if there’s no end in sight. And inevitably, we come to _that_ memory.

“Merlin, you were all so young…” he whispers in a voice resonating with sadness after having witnessed his mother being tortured by my mad aunt. I can see he’s found this particular memory especially harrowing to watch, and I swallow thickly, guilt washing over me anew because I was there and I let it happen. I never got to tell her, but I begrudgingly admired Hermione Granger for her intellect and her bravery, and deep down inside, I knew she was trying to do the right thing – yet I just stood there and watched my vile aunt carve her malice into the girl’s flesh, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. I felt so damn helpless and frightened…

That’s what I’ve always envied Potter and his lot the most – they were so insanely brave. They just went and _did_ things, took matters into their own hands, took risks and did everything they had to do to achieve their goals, whether that meant living on the run in the wild for half a year, or breaking in and out of Gringotts on the back of a dragon. And I was hardly ever more than a puppet, a barely-useful pawn to people who knew how to play big games.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks unexpectedly, and his voice is dark and soft. “I shouldn’t have made you uncomfortable this way. But seeing my mum like this… I suppose I’m a bit too empathic for my own good. It serves me well in my profession, but when it gets as personal, as it did just now…”

“Please don’t apologise,” I speak quickly, my heart beating in my chest so madly it’s making me dizzy. “I shouldn’t have made you watch it. I should have known better. Merlin… it’s just that I wanted you to know what it was like to be me back then, I wanted you to see what my nightmares are made of; perhaps I was hoping…”

And there it is. The lightest touch of his palm on my cheek, caressing it gently, and my breath seems to stop in my chest, expanding it, causing my heart to swell at such unspeakable tenderness.

“Draco,” he has softly. “Look at me.”

I look at him, helpless, unable to resist, desperate for understanding, desperate for his tenderness.

“I want to see. I need to see to understand. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy… how could it be when it’s been tormenting you for a quarter of a century? But if you think that dying by the hand of Voldemort’s cronies would have made anything right, you couldn’t be more wrong. Most of those people whose end you witnessed would have made the same choice as you did just for a chance to live. Not everyone is as insanely brave and self-sacrificing as my Uncle Harry. Fear of dying is the most basic human instinct, and you shouldn’t expect to be punished for protecting yourself. You were _not meant_ to die then; that was not your destiny, and you would do well to keep that in mind. You were meant to be a witness, you were meant to bring the real perpetrators to justice – as you did… you were meant to be Scorpius’s father,” he says gently, and more than anything, this one gets me straight in the heart. I can barely choke down a strained wail.

“And isn’t that amazing? None of that would have happened if you hadn’t lived. And perhaps… there’s more for you in the stars, who knows?” he says with a mysterious, tender smile that makes me want to launch myself at him and kiss him stupid. I’m not even sorry anymore for having such hopeless feelings. I’m only sorry I’ll never get to express them.

“Shall we?”

Is he really asking me to continue? God, how I want to… but I hate the thought of tormenting him again. If he’s really highly empathic…

“Draco! Please… I want to.”

Merlin, how does anyone ever says no to these soft, lit-up eyes? I just nod with a knot in my throat and grip his fingers tightly, before extracting another silvery, swirling string from my head.

After that, he barely says a word – just gives an occasional deep sigh, as if he needs to expel all the misery he’s been witnessing, and rubs that handsome face with his hands, as if washing himself clean of all those cruel memories. But other than that, I can’t really read him. All his emotions seem contained in an endless realm behind those deep, thoughtful eyes. After a while, I no longer wonder. It’s his way. I’m just immensely grateful he’s not giving up on me. He takes a few moments after every return from the Pensieve to think and to collect himself, but he never lets go of my hand for long, as if he needs the support and comfort of our touch just as badly as I do. Perhaps he does. What I’m having him witness… it’s not for everyone. Not for the faint of heart, and by all means, not for anyone with a weak stomach.

But he never stops repaying my trust. I feel more devastated every time we return from one of my memories, but each time I feel his grip on my fingers tighten, as if understands just how much I need him, and I find comfort and strength in those clever, soulful eyes, and his quiet, encouraging words: “Shall we move on to another one? Please don’t try to spare me. You need to share your burden. It has festered long enough.”

Until finally, after what feels hours and hours of agony, I run out of them. I’ve got no more memories I want him to see. I’m empty. And barely standing.

“This is it,” I say, but I’m so exhausted even my toneless, quivering voice has no volume. “I haven’t got more. Now you know.”

“Thank you,” he says softly, and then my legs finally give out, together with my stubborn conscience. The last thing I feel is a pair of strong hands wrapped around me as I’m falling head-first into a deep tunnel of darkness, for once no longer feeling a thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Oh, dear god, I’ve done it. I’ve died and gone to heaven. I might not have been so averse to kicking the bucket if I’d known it would be so... divine. My heavy eyelids are in no hurry to open; I’m warm, relaxed and I feel safe… and Merlin, that delicious smell! I’m immersed in it, and it seems to be a proper aphrodisiac… If that’s how Heaven smells, no wonder it’s been all the rage for centuries. I inhale the fresh, warm and… sexy – god, yes! – fragrance, and my wonderfully laid-back mind identifies it as casually as it was the most common scent in the world for me: Hugo.

Merlin’s homemade socks, where am I… and what have I done?! If I’m reading my impressions correctly… I seem to be parked right on top of the lovely redhead with his strong arms holding me protectively around the shoulders, and his strong heart beating against the side of my face. Oh yes, heaven sounds about right. This… is seriously _nice_. I’m melted against the muscled chest… and one of my hands is resting on top of a beautifully taut, sculpted torso. Merlin, he’s fit. And he feels so strong! All that Quidditch Scorpius mentioned certainly shows. I’m in absolutely no hurry to move. I love it here. The intoxicating, manly musk of him, the strong beating of his heart… Perhaps if I remain still I could prolong this… _cuddling_? Oh, god, I’m just so hopelessly smitten that I’m practically drooling already…

“I still can’t believe you went through something like this without informing me first! He could have died! He could have come back broken…!”

Bugger. So we’re not alone. Which is good! Of course… yes. Merlin’s left nipple, who am I fooling?!

My son – undoubtedly – sounds properly agitated. I can tell because his voice has that fussy tone that’s saying _“You, poor fool, stepped on my tail and now I’ve snapped my serpent jaws around you and I’m not letting go – ever!”_

“Why am I always the last one to find out everything?! I’ve trusted you to make him better; you might as well have trusted me when you’re going to make one of your crazy, drastic moves. He’s my father, you know! I’m his next of kin, Hugo – I deserve to know!”

God Almighty, go easy on him, you ruthless child! Poor Hugo! He only wanted to help – I practically dragged him to that Pensieve – he shouldn’t be bullied by my blissfully ignorant son, who doesn’t even know how much the beautiful redhead has done for me! But before I can somehow unglue my eyelids and pry them open to interfere, the redhead’s calm voice replies – and he doesn’t sound even a little bit intimidated.

“It was your idea, Scorp; you said so yourself. And it was a good one – your father must have recognised that somehow, or he wouldn’t have thought of it.”

Merlin’s limping dog – would you look at that?! It seems that Hugo can totally hold his own, even in the face of my son’s legendary grouchiness! And just when I thought he couldn’t impress me more!

“Besides,” the redhead continues, that masculine voice suddenly sounding serious, “I didn’t tell you to call me at any time in case things go awry so I could stand there and do nothing. My job sometimes requires me to take steps that are painful, risky, and a far cry from comfortable, Scorpius – but always aimed at the final goal of healing.”

God, the authority that rings in his voice, it’s just… it turns me on. There’s no use beating around the bush: the sound of Hugo Weasley’s deep, commanding voice turns something inside me into jelly. I could listen to that voice – and follow it – for as long as he’d have me.

“He’s been suffering long enough, Scorp,” the redhead speaks unexpectedly softly. “His experiences are of the most horrid sort – extreme violence he witnessed, mixed with humiliation he was subjected to, and a feeling of guilt and helplessness on top of that… It’s a cocktail that would be deadly for most people, and I can scarcely believe his bravery to stand up in the face of it. But it’s been festering inside of him for a quarter of a century, and it _would_ eventually kill him, have no doubt about that… It might have come as an accidental overdose or as shock to his weakened body in one of his tormenting night-terrors – but he didn’t have much more time ahead of him. Certainly not with the type of medication he was using, and not as sleep-deprived as he was in the end. You brought him to me, clinging to the end of his rope, and I honestly think it was just a matter of weeks… Now, don’t cry! I can’t hold you both, you know!”

_Oh.My.God._ My son is sobbing. I don’t think I’ve heard him make that sound since he fell off his first broom, and that was more of an angry sobbing from bruised pride than this… wretched, heart-wrenching sound.

“It’s just… I really don’t want to lose him, you know. I know your dad doesn’t think much of him, but I couldn’t have asked for a better father, honestly! I could see that something was bothering him, but he was always so private… When mother told me what happened, I was… To think that I’ve let him down! He always stood by me, always did what was the absolute best for me, and I left him when he needed me most. Rose and I should have waited… but with the baby on the way…”

Baby?! What baby?! _OhJesusfuckChristandMerlin_ … I’m going to be a grandfather!!!

“I’m sure he’d understand… if you and Rose finally opened your silly mouths and told him about it!” Hugo grunts. “If you delay it much longer, he’s going to read it in the Prophet, you know – and you know they won’t make a pretty affair out of it!”

“I know… I know that,” my son sighs. “I wanted to give him the good news so many times, but he was so distant and absolutely wrecked lately… I thought I could do it when he was feeling a bit better… but to think he might be running out of time…”

“Well, don’t delay much longer, that’s all I’m saying. News like that has got to have a positive effect on his health, silly,” Hugo murmurs. “You know, my dad fell off a broom and broke three ribs when Rose not-so-cleverly used the middle of a Quidditch match to break the news to him – but he’s recovered. In fact, Mum had to ask Uncle Bill to explicitly tell the goblins at Gringotts not to open more than one vault at the time for him after Rose caught him trying to buy a broom and Quidditch gear for the baby!”

A broom?! _A broom?!_ But what about his wardrobe? The child needs something to wear – they soil themselves awfully in the first few months! And a wand! Every child has to have a toy wand! And a little toy Snitch to practise on, yes – the freckled brute surely forgot about that, ha! I wonder if they already have a room ready for him – surely it’ll be a boy, the Malfoys haven’t had a daughter in centuries, and the Weasleys are none too strong in that department either! They will _have_ to accept a gift from the prospective grandfather; I simply _cannot_ be outdone by a Weasel! Oh, I’m going to be a grandfather!

As if he could feel my joy, Hugo’s arms seem to tighten around me, and one of his hands threads gently through my hair, as if he was reminding me to stay still – or maybe he just felt my heart beat faster and he’s trying to calm me down.

“By the way, my dad doesn’t think badly of your father, not anymore,” the redhead says warmly. “Not after Rose told him your father never objected to your union… and now, with the baby on the way, he realises he’s going to have to put whatever differences and petty confrontations they used to have to rest. Bury the hatchet, so to speak. And you, Malfoy Junior, need to forget about your guilt – you lot are awfully strong on the self-reproach front! If you want my expert opinion, your father’s meltdown was coming, rain or shine – you staying around might have delayed the process for a few months, but his sleeping problems could not be managed indefinitely with the medication he was taking. Eventually, he would have arrived at this very same point in life – and he might have been in a worse shape with no help at hand.”

My son’s sniffling is the only sound in the room, and my heart squeezes in my chest at the thought of the sorrow I’ve put him through because my stupid pride wouldn’t let me seek help sooner. We, the Malfoys, were always very private when it came to our problems – we tend to close our ranks and take care of it ourselves. But this is something my family couldn’t help me with. I tried taking care of it myself, but I’ve only managed to alienate my wife, and I had no idea how I had hurt my son in the process. It was obvious from their conversation that he stayed at home as long as he did because of me. He must have noticed my desperate clinging… Salazar’s oily beard, I have once again been selfish, even though I was too scrambled to notice it. Will I ever stop making a mess of my life and the lives of everyone around me? Was I cursed?!

“It’s going to be all right. Don’t cry, blondie,” Hugo speaks softly, and I can hear my son snort and give a chuckle at the affectionate term even through his sniffling.

“Don’t call me that!” he mumbles, and I sense a camaraderie I never felt towards another boy in his voice. I can’t recall him ever speaking of Hugo much, though he always had so much to say about Rose, but there’s something there… some unspoken understanding between two kindred souls who are simply on the same level.

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” Hugo replies with a chuckle. “I was your first kiss, remember?”

I… freeze. Merlin’s dragon… _what?_ What?!

“Oh, don’t remind me,” my son groans. “It was a move made in despair and only because I wanted to make Rose jealous and couldn’t bring myself to do it with another girl. I thought she might notice me for something other than just her best friend if I kissed you,” my – clearly lethally dumb – son mumbles, sounding properly embarrassed. And I shouldn’t really feel so incredibly relieved that they were never… romantically involved. Only… I am. Oh, I suppose Weasley-related idiocy runs in the family.

“Oh, notice she did,” Hugo moans. “I’ll have you know that my arse occasionally still stings from those damn… harpies… birds… whatever those creatures were that she sent after us! In the end, I had to confess that you agreed to compensate me by letting me borrow that old-age scroll on potions from the manor’s library – and still I spent half a year hiding whenever I saw her angry scowl. I don’t think she ever properly forgave me! I got the best training in dealing with painful and risky procedures at home, you know!”

“Well, it did work,” my son mumbles. “I don’t think she’s let me out of her sight since. I stupidly paid your Aunt Fleur a compliment once – she _is_ still quite stunning, three kids and all – and I had to kip on the couch for a month. Not to mention that I still have my wand at the ready as a precaution every time I see your Uncle Bill. That Weasley temper… honestly...”

“Yup, we’re quite possessive,” Hugo chuckles softly. “We fall for that one special person, and it’s game over for all time.”

“Yeah… I wouldn’t have it any other way, you know,” my son says unexpectedly gently. “I love Rose to bits. I tried to propose when she got pregnant, but she said she didn’t want to be _”a fat bride”_ – not that I would have cared one way or another, but you know how adamant she is. And she’s got this vision of our child carrying our rings on the heart-shaped pillow down the aisle, so yeah… I let her have it.”

“I’d call you a romantic softie, but I know better,” Hugo grunts. “You’d never sleep again if you didn’t let her have her way. She’s bloody scary when she wants something… but I guess you could have done worse in terms of a future wife,” he chuckles warmly. “You’re going to have a brilliant life, both of you. And perhaps it’s good to wait for a bit. Your father will be much better in time, and we both know he’s going to fight my dad tooth-and-nail to have a hand in your wedding.”

“Father… _is_ going to be better, isn’t he?” Scorpius asks quietly. “Don’t you dare give me any bad news.”

“He’s got a really good chance at improving now, I reckon,” the redhead says thoughtfully. “He’s really determined to make progress and finally leave this wretched war behind – but it’s a process, and it won’t happen overnight. It took my mum and dad months – and I think Uncle Harry is still not quite over it. Your father will need you more than ever. He’s an exceptional man who has raised you exceptionally well, and he’s going to need to feel like he’s an important part of your life and the life of his grandchild. He needs that feeling he’s got something to live for. New life always brings new hope, and your father more than deserves it.”

I’m… moved, quite frankly. Just… seriously emotional. I have shown this young man nothing but the worst and the most miserable of me, and still he has nothing but the best words for me. I just… want to kiss him. Hopelessly so. And because my brain has been a bit fried lately, I do. Before I can stop myself I press a tiny, grateful, overwhelmed kiss into his chest – and I freeze. Merlin… now I’ve really done it!

But instead of jumping to the ceiling or freaking out, which he would be entirely justified in doing, the redhead just gently slides his fingers into my hair once more, and combs through it with such care and tenderness it makes my heart flutter in my chest.

“We need to tune it down a bit,” he says just above the whisper. “He’s waking up, and I don’t want him to, not just yet. He needs all the rest he can get. I won’t lie to you: he’s still very fragile, physically and mentally. It’s been eating at him from the inside for too long and – don’t forget – he’s been around very dark magic for a long period of time. People don’t often realise what a mark that leaves. If I was you, I’d make sure he’d have something to look forward to every day – even if it’s only tea in the afternoon, or shopping for all the baby knick-knacks once you finally come around to telling him. It might speed up his recovery greatly.”

“You really like him, don’t you?” my son says unexpectedly, and only years of Malfoyian drill in composure and indifference keep me still. But I can’t keep my heart in check. Suddenly, it’s racing madly against my chest, and I’m mortified at the thought that Hugo can most definitely feel it. But I can’t help myself. My son just posed a question I would never in a million years have the guts to ask, and – oh, for God’s sakes, the blithering fool that am, I’m desperate for an answer. The small pause before he answers seems to last a century.

“Yeah… yeah, I do,” he finally exhales, and I can hear him smile. “He’s quite something. I didn’t really think he’d give me a chance to treat him, but he jumped right into it – no prejudice whatsoever – and he’s been a model patient ever since.”

“But you _like_ him, right? Like, for him? Not just as a case?” my son smugly pursues further, and my heart is ready to break out of the confines of my chest.

“What if I do?” Hugo asks quietly. “You wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you? You know I’d never be anything short of professional, but what I do in my private time is my own damn business.”

Oh my god, what is he saying? Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Would I really stand a chance? Surely not! Oh, I bet my stupid scrambled brain and smitten heart is making me read his words all wrong! Why would someone so… _stunning_ want to have anything to do with me?!

“I’m asking,” my son says pointedly, “because I will hex you into the Dark Ages if you break his heart. He opened himself up to you… frankly, I’ve never seen him like this – and we both know that you’re a player, Weasley. One night stands, that’s your business, and I’m saying if you’re thinking in that direction with my father in mind, I’ll make sure you regret it. _Don’t.Break.His.Heart_ ; that’s all I’m saying. Or I swear, I’ll… I’ll set Rose on you!”

“Heaven help me, surely not,” the redhead murmurs sardonically, but there’s enough laughter in his soft rumble that I’m fairly certain he can hold his own against his fierce sister.

“I’d never hurt him,” the redhead suddenly says softly. “You know that.”

The silence that ensues is bristling with their unspoken communication, and I’m simply dying to be able to open my eyes and see what is going on between them, but finally my son sighs and says sulkily:

“Make sure that you don’t. I need to leave now – my future wife has most impossible cravings for ice cream, and nothing but straight from the Fortescue’s will do. Oh, before I forget. Here’s that statement from Grandmother Cissy you asked for – Rose finally dug it out of one of the files from the first trial – it was classified and never made public, but it’s as you suspected: she did everything she could to protect her son… from both sides.”

I hear the rustling of parchment, and suddenly my skin is crawling. Every muscle in my body tenses as if in anticipation of some unknown, looming calamity – and I don’t even know where the sudden feeling of panic comes from. What is this all about?! Hugo’s arms grip around me a bit tighter, as if he is telling me to keep it still… Merlin, is he aware that I’m awake, then?

“Thank you. Please, put it on the table,” Hugo says quietly. “I’ll have a look at it later. I don’t want to move just yet. Your father responds best to human touch, and right now he needs to feel safe and comfortable.”

“Bollocks,” my son mumbles. “You’re too buff to be comfortable. You just like holding him.”

“I’m not even going to _attempt_ to answer that, you blond dolt,” the redhead chuckles in reply, but his hand sweeps a few strands of my hair to the side so gently, as if giving its quiet confirmation, and the feeling is so charging I can barely hold back a moan.

“Don’t want to incriminate yourself, do you?” Scorpius grunts.

“Get out of here, _blondie_ , before I become an uncle to a fatherless child,” Hugo laughs softly. “I may not be in a position to get you, but if Rose gets that ice-cream late, all bets are off.”

“Right you are,” my son groans. “My balls and all my future children are in grave and imminent danger. Later, Weasley.”

The next thing I hear is the soft _pop_ of the Apparition, and the only sound for a while is the steady, strong beating of his heart. I’m still the same boneless sort of tired, and the sound of his heart is simply the most relaxing, wonderful thing ever. His fingers are still slowly combing through my hair, and I… I just don’t want to lose this. I’m still excited about the prospect of becoming a grandfather, and I have a million questions regarding the mysterious parchment on his desk… but I decide that it can wait. It is so damn nice and uncomplicated to simply give into his body heat and that unspoken tenderness, and let it lull me back to sleep.

~

When I wake up again, feeling wonderfully rested and amazingly rejuvenated, I can tell even with the curtains drawn that the sun is high up in the sky. Hugo – my first thought – is nowhere to be seen, but before my disappointment can settle in, I notice a tray with a mug of smouldering-hot black coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a deliciously smelling plate of fresh croissants on the nightstand next to a neatly folded note.

_~~Mr Malfoy~~ Draco,_

_I hope you had a good rest. When you’re up to it, please join me in the library. Your son has generously permitted me to use it for my work during my stay here._

_I hope not to intrude on your hospitality for too long, but I’d like to discuss your progress and the next steps to be taken in your treatment._

_Enjoy your breakfast – it’s fairly obvious to me now why Grandma Molly always said she wanted a house-elf – the food is ridiculously delicious!_

_Hugo_

I admit, his note makes me smile. Seriously – Weasleys and their food… My god, I still remember those early Hogwarts days, when Weasley – Senior – used to dig into every meal with such an orgasmic expression on his face that it made Granger roll her eyes and Potter giggle like a madman.

And speaking of the “o” word – I’ve just discovered the source of a most pleasant tension flowing through my body like a current: I’m hard. Like, proper hard. I’m solid. For perhaps, the first time in what must be years… Merlin’s left bollock, could that really be the sign that I’m healing?

In the days before the war, I used to wake up like this every bloody day – and I confess I always thought it was a bit of a nuisance, but mostly too pleasant a one to resist. I used to _love_ do indulge myself in that activity, even if it meant learning a couple of mean privacy charms – not only to conceal my actions you see, but to block out Crabbe and Goyle’s grunting. Merlin, the sounds they made could be used as a contraceptive – no one could procreate – or wank – in those conditions! I confess I kind of cared for the two mean bastards in the end – but certainly not enough to listen to their morning grunting!

But after the war… it was as if I couldn’t really find my youthful spirit anymore. I was a broken man in more ways than one. But now… now my juices seem to be flowing through me with a vengeance… there’s an excited rush of blood in my ears, and when I stretch my stiff muscles, my cock juts forward as if I was sixteen again… God, I can’t possibly let this opportunity go to waste… as if I could. I know perfectly well why I got it… and who’s the only possible source of it.

_Hugo_ … I only have to close my eyes, and I can almost smell the delicious musk of warm skin. My hand is on my cock before I can stop it, cupping, kneading, freeing… feeling the hardness, revelling in the velvety feel of the hot, heavy flesh sliding inside the palm of my hand… Oh, god, how could I forget? I used to love this… best feeling ever… How could I have done without it for so long?

But now the urge has got ahold of me, and I can’t resist. My mind is flooded with the images of that obscenely beautiful copper hair that first took my breath away… with the way that luscious, tempting mouth stretches into a radiant smile… and how he chuckles warmly in a way that makes those piercing blue eyes sparkle like diamonds… _Sum tuo aere_ , he told me on the first day with that sexy smile… _ohMerlinfuck_ … I’d sell my soul right now to sink my fingers into that rich, silken copper and take him up on his offer… have myself fucked senseless… Oh, god, this is _definitely_ not going to take long.

And then, a perfectly clear memory suddenly flashes in front of my mind of that one time during our first meeting, when he bit his lip in a manner so innocently seductive that I couldn’t take my eyes off his full lips… and now I’m picturing them around my cock… warm, soft... and _hungry_ … swallowing my shaft all the way down and closing around the hot flesh as if they need it… sucking… teasing… claiming… coming back for more… yes, yes, _ohgodfuckyes_!!!

I feel my body arch like a bow, and I come so hard it feels as if I was hit by a bloody freight train. There’s no warning – just a helpless, muffled cry of his name… and then an expanse of starry universe behind my closed eyelids. Oh, this is fucking _beautiful_ … It’s been too bloody long…. I don’t recall _ever_ seeing black when the release hit, but this time it was just… _JesusMerlin_ … that was… _intense_. I knew I wouldn’t last… but I didn’t realise I was quite so desperate. As I lie in my bed, panting, flooded with the gorgeous golden softness of absolute bliss spreading through my limbs like a priceless tide – I can’t bring myself to regret it. I groan mentally, thinking that I’m going to have to meet him soon – and having wanked over him… would he know? But I’m simply too… happy, to be worried.

Merlin’s boiled dragon egg – I’m _happy_. I barely recognise the emotion… or myself. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything like happiness – my Scorpius being born was probably the last time. But that happiness was mixed with the anxiety of the terrible responsibility in front of me – raising my son into a decent human being – but this sort of happiness was… different. It was a carefree sort; the sort that a teenager without a proper care in the world might feel – one I never really knew. I really wanted to keep it. I was determined to. I knew the orgasm-induced high wouldn’t last – but I felt the solid foundation of the peace underneath it that I was desperate to get to. It was the one thing that could make my happiness permanent – into a thing I would know I wouldn’t lose even on rainy days. And Hugo could help me with that. I really shouldn’t leave him waiting much longer.

I get out of bed fuelled with determination and vigour that feel brand new as well, and after a refreshing bath I dig into my breakfast with wolfish hunger. I can’t remember _ever_ feeling so starved. I even have a passing thought that almost makes me choke on my pumpkin juice: do the Weasleys always feel that sort of passionate need for food that makes them enjoy it so? Surely I wasn’t turning into one of them! I’ve always considered food more of a necessity than a source of joy, but today I seem to have found a new appreciation for it. Perhaps it is my morning bliss – or the fact that I feel as if I’m a good way down the path to healing – but everything seems to glow with a different sort of splendour. For the first time in ages, I stand in front of my closet and actually consider what to wear – because now it matters. _He_ is waiting to meet me.

~

And I thought my day was bright before I set my eyes on him – but it isn’t until I spot the glitter of red hair by the windowsill in the library that I realise how much his presence means to me. My heart jumps into my throat, and I become acutely aware how much he made me need him in the space of just a few days. The force pulling me toward him is almost physical – and I’m suddenly stunned by realisation that I can’t imagine no longer seeing him around. It must be that obsessive Black part of my personality that doesn’t want me to let go. There has been no talk of him disappearing from my life yet, but I fear it already. I don’t even bother taking my eyes off him because I feel a deep, thirsty need to soak up every detail of the stunning young man. Sitting still as a statue, he’s staring through the window, clearly immersed in deep thought, and I can’t get enough of looking at him.

I can only see his profile, but his face seems thoughtful and serious, while his gorgeous copper hair is pulled into that rigorous plait that’s supposed to make him look more professional. But his hair seems to have a will of its own, and doesn’t look like it wants to cooperate: his plait is beginning to fall apart already, the silken strands of loose hair bestowing a youthful softness to his face that makes my heart ache. His deep blue eyes reflect the summer skies they’re set on, and for the first time I notice his Muggle attire – faded denims that still somehow make his long, strong legs look incredible, and a button-down that clings to his muscled frame like water…. Actually, that’s not entirely true. The shirt clings to his wide shoulders like water, but from somewhere at the middle on, the buttons seem to have been done up in a hurry and aren’t stuck in the right button-holes. He’s utterly adorable like this, and without a shred of doubt, the most breathtaking man I’ve ever seen.

And then without a single warning, I’m hit by a lightning bolt of head-spinning realisation: I’m in love with Hugo Weasley. Head over heels… smitten. This is no longer just an unhealthy attraction. It has _never_ been just that. He’s… I’m in love. Desperately, hopelessly in love. The truth hits me like a punch in the face. How could I allow this to happen? He was here to help me and once his work is done, he’ll be gone. How could I have gone and done something so stupid?! But in the same moment, I already know I wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything in the world. I’m loving its breathtaking bliss, its bittersweet edge, the very silken fabric of the feeling too much. I’ve fallen for a gorgeous, talented man I have no hope of winning – but I’m in love for the first time, and it’s just… all worth it. It looks like _that_ concept might not have been so overrated after all...

The commotion I make finally causes him to notice me. He turns his head towards me, and for one long, breathless moment, our eyes meet across the room. There isn’t a single word spoken between us, but a shiver goes through me as if I was physically touched. The bond between us is so intense, it’s like… like our eyes found a way to kiss across the distance, and it’s just as hungry, desperate and filled with urgency as I knew it would be for us. I know without a shadow of a doubt that he was thinking about me when I walked in, and I know with the same certainty that I want him to. I’ve been subjected to Legilimency many a time in my past, but nothing… no connection ever felt this intimate. I’m afraid to breathe for fear of breaking it.

But of course, it can’t last. He bites into his lower lip softly, probably without even knowing, and the sight of those white teeth against the tender flesh stirs up something so feral and possessive inside me that I barely swallow a desperate moan. _I want him._ God, how I want him. I cross the room without a single word spoken. My mouth is on his before his words can take away my chance to do this, but the way his lips meet mine – soft, hungry, desperate, taking and giving – I know I just did what was inevitable. He can’t deny me. He won’t. We have this… ungodly, urgent… _thing_ , between us… this fucking unforgivable forbidden need to connect and sink into each other that I can’t find any rational explanation for. My vision nearly blurs around the edges when our tongues touch, and the feeling of silken, wet flesh begging to enter my needy mouth literally makes my knees give way. His hand is on my back with the speed of lightning to stop me from falling, and inexplicably, cruelly, he pulls away.

“We can’t do this,” he whispers, and he sounds as miserable as I feel. No, no, no… he can’t take this away from me! Just when I found it, found him… _no_! But with that unrelenting force he possesses, he leads me to the armchair and makes me sit in it. He takes a step or two away from me, as if he needs to put a bit of a distance between us, but can’t really make himself to go too far. I feel the distance between us as an almost physical pain. Why is he doing this to me?

But then he looks at me with those gorgeous, sad blue eyes, and says the words I fear the most:

“I can’t be your Healer anymore. I… this is all wrong.”

“No!” I try to shout, but it comes out as a choked bark. “No! This isn’t fair. Why are you doing this to me? I was making progress, you can’t just… Hugo, please…”

I’m not even ashamed of my pathetic, begging voice; I’m much too anxious that I’m going to lose him. I’d do anything to stop him from leaving. I was on my way out of this misery called life when he entered, and his incredible life force pulled me right back into the light and… it took me a while before I realised it, but on that day, I met the love of my life. It’s why I so desperately wanted to get better. For him. Because he made my heart beat faster and made me want to live.

But if this… this new, scary reality between us was the thing that was driving him away, I would stifle it. I’d lock it in my heart and never speak of it, if that’s what it takes to make him stay. Please, Universe. I don’t want to lose him. But it’s all in vain. I can see it in the determined, sad look in his eyes, and my heart sinks lower than I ever knew it could. I don’t want to keep breathing.

“You don’t understand…” he says softly. “There is this thing… it’s called _transference neurosis._ It sometimes happens in cases of very intense therapy that a patient begins to have feelings for the person treating them… only, it’s because of the therapy, and not because it’s _real._ ”

Oh, you know nothing of real, my beautiful redheaded wonder. This is as real as it gets. Nothing in my life as a breathing, wanting, starved-of-love man has ever felt so real.

He rubs his face in that familiar gesture that first made me notice those beautiful, slender hands, and my nails are digging into my palms to the point of bleeding. How dare he be so blasphemously beautiful at a moment like this?! Am I not supposed to hate him in the face of his rejection? But I feel no hate whatsoever, just a desperate love that makes my whole being ache. I feverishly want him to keep talking, but not because I want his explanation. He doesn’t want me. I don’t care why. I just don’t want to lose him yet, and while he talks he’s still here, with me, out of this world beautiful, and for just a moment longer, a little bit mine.

“I suppose it was because we started on such a wrong… funny… informal foot,” he says quietly, and the serpent in me loves him for his misery. If this isn’t easy for him, he must feel _something_.

“I was just so dreadfully tired that day before you came in… and it all went in the wrong direction from there. You had me dreadfully embarrassed that day – and that wasn’t the last time that I compromised myself as your Healer. We were… _I_ was not professional. I couldn’t be around you for some reason. Not after you caught me sleeping and… never after that, I’m afraid. Something about you just feels… too personal… more than just a job. I don’t always make house calls, you know,” he smiles sadly. “I don’t always lie down with patients to make them feel comfortable… but I would do anything for you,” he says with such stunning honesty, I literally stop breathing. Merlin’s grace, please, please, don’t leave me like this, tell me what this is all about…

“Treating you has given me a certain insight into my life that I must say I badly needed,” he says with the same measured pace, same calm voice, and the very same sadness in his lovely eyes. “For one, I gave my notice of my resignation this morning at St. Mungo’s. I’ve realised that this is something I want to specialise in – post-traumatic stress disorder, the condition you have – and my regular job at St. Mungo’s was draining me and distracting me from that goal. No Healer should _ever_ fall asleep on their patient,” he stresses, “and I’ve done it not once, but twice with you. In dealing with patients with your condition, it could be dangerous – and it’s highly irresponsible. I owe you an apology for that alone… but that is far from everything.”

My heart is beating at a furious pace, and there is pressure collecting behind my eyes that makes me feel as if my head is going to explode. Please, please don’t apologise for what we had. It was so little… and it was everything. I need to believe it was real to keep on breathing after you’re gone.

“Surely you must know what I’m trying to say already,” he says incredibly gently, but his tenderness feels like acid corroding the truth underneath, and I feel like screaming at him not to ruin it for me, not to label it… what we have… as something that it isn’t. Suddenly I’m dead afraid of his words, but there is no stopping them. They come anyway.

“It wasn’t until I talked to your son that it really dawned on me what I’d done. When I first noticed your feelings… transference… I didn’t stop you as I was supposed to… because I couldn’t,” he says simply, and looks into my eyes as if he wants me to understand what he’s got to say. “Because I’ve got feelings for you as well… and mine are real.”

As if from a distance I hear, “I don’t think I have enough distance to be your Healer anymore. I’m… Draco?”

The anxious urgency in his voice is the last thing I register. My heart literally feels as if it has burst in my chest and everything goes red… and then black…

I come to my senses with the feeling of strong arms around me, immersed in that wonderful scent... best smell ever… the mixture of warm skin and the very scent that spells love. Hugo. My Hugo. Who has feelings for me. Real feelings. I can’t open my eyes fast enough to see him. And there he is. Kneeling by my side, next to the leather armchair in my library, his beautiful face only inches from my own, and a silken coppery curtain of his hair all around me like a protective veil. He looks completely beside himself.

“Draco!” The tiny crease of worry on his brow, the relief on his face… it’s heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. Merlin… Could it really be? Could he really have feelings for me? Someone as incredible as this?

“ _MerlinChrist,_ Draco.. you gave me such a fright… I just can’t be anything but stupid around you, can I? That’s what I get for letting you fry my brain completely. I shouldn’t have told you this way… you’re still so fragile. But I couldn’t just bottle it up anymore. It was interfering with our work, with your healing… and this is important… you’re important. You’re the most important person to me right now…”

His voice ends in a whisper when I finally do what I’ve wanted to do all this time: I sink my fingers into that gorgeous, glittering mass of coppery hair, and I pull him down onto my mouth with such desperate force that not even he can resist.

“ _Sum tuo aere…_ ” I whisper into his mouth, once again blissfully warm and pliant. “Just like you told me once, remember? I’m yours for a copper… for all this copper… the treasure you’re made of. I want you, Hugo, and I don’t care if you think it’s just some bloody _transference_ , or whatever the hell it’s called. _This_ … is not a medical condition. _This_ …” – I give him another desperate kiss, laden with every bit of the insane, overwhelming, heart-bursting affection I have for him – “… this is pure love.”

He moans into my mouth quietly, and I just want to forget about the rest of the world and keep doing this… keep getting drunk on the wonderful, intoxicating love pouring from his lips onto mine. But I’ve got things to say, and I need to say them, in case my fragile nerves betray me once more, and he won’t ever know.

“It’s your love that’s healing me. So if you want to get me another Healer, I’ll do that… I’ll do anything you want me to, just to keep you… but it won’t do me much good. It’s you. It’s always been you, and that… _light_ you're filled with that made me fall for you, and made me hope. You took my breath away the first time I saw you, and I had no idea you were supposed to be my Healer. It's not just your dedication and care that made me feel I could get better. It's just _you_ , Hugo… as you are. So you better tell me that you’ve got a good idea, and a good, solid plan about how to help me, because I want to get better for you… and if I can have my choice, I want to get better _with_ you.”

There’s such a soft glimmer in his eyes that I can tell he wants to believe me, but I know I’m going to have to work harder than that: this is Granger’s son I fell for, and as soon as my arms are no longer wrapped around him, his rational brain is going to kick in, and he’s going to doubt every word I’ve said. That’s all right. _I’m ready for the long haul, love._ I know what I feel, I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I’ll do whatever it takes to give him the proof he’s after. He’s going to have to see my love for what it is eventually. It’s not like I can hide it – hide how it makes me feel. I’m practically glowing. And it seems as if, at least for now, even he can’t resist.

“I’m not quite sure, I believe you, Draco Malfoy,” he whispers into my mouth emotionally between two desperate kisses. “But this mouth… it’s just too sweet to resist… always saying the right things… such a snake charmer. Did I mention that I was sorted into Slytherin? Well, now you know. Natural Healers always are. There’s snake in our sigil for a reason, you know. And you’ve charmed this snake… charmed it completely. I honestly don’t know whether I’m coming or going around you…”

“Coming, if I can take my pick,” I murmur, and – Merlin, I never knew I was capable of such terrible cheek! I just know that I’m stupidly… impossibly happy, and it’s making me do stupid, impossible things.

“Not just yet,” he chuckles, and presses another seductive, delicious kiss onto my lips. “We need to get you better first. I don’t want you passing out on me when I come asking for a _full_ physical…”

Jesus, I love the naughty spark in his eyes, the taste of a promise lingering on his sensual lips. Just the idea of that sinful mouth on my skin makes me release the most embarrassing, utterly debauched moan, worthy of the most wanton whore the ancient Pompeii ever had. But I can’t help myself, can I? He’s just pure, sinful sex on endless legs, and then there’s that soft, glittering hair in my fist that I’ve got such a bloody fetish for… and that mouth. Oh, it’s all too much. No fucking chance I can let go… I won’t! I kiss him once again, hungry, needy, greedy for more.

“Tell me then,” I demand, not giving a rat’s arse how arrogant and spoilt that makes me sound. “Tell me how you feel about me. I want to hear you say it. I want to…”

“I’m in love with you, Draco Malfoy,” he says softly, with that sweet, tender smile – and it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It takes my breath away.

“I should have known the second I saw you standing in the middle of my room looking a bit desperate… and my first thought was that you must have stepped out of my dream,” he adds with those magical sapphire eyes on mine, and I’m… completely lost for words. Like a true king, he easily gives me the thing I so desperately crave. I never knew I could feel so lost and found at the same time. It’s like I’ve been looking for the right destination all my life, on the verge of losing hope, and then – bam! – a few simple words from my red-haired knight, and suddenly there I am.

A mad surge of overwhelming love takes me completely by surprise, and I feel so consumed by it that I’m rendered speechless. I honestly _cannot_ say a word. I can’t tell him that his feelings are reciprocated, a thousand times over; that I’m ridiculously bonkers about him. I can’t tell him how much his confession means to me – but I reckon he guessed somehow. The way I can’t take my eyes off him – can’t stop playing with his hair, can’t stop bloody _touching_ him because I can’t believe he’s really letting me own him – must have given me away.

I just stare like the hopelessly smitten fool that I am when he leans down once more and steals a string of soft, nearly chaste kisses from my lips, whispering:

“And I think… I think I might know a way to make you better. You should really come to my birthday party next week, love.”


	6. Chapter 6

I must be mad to be doing this. I have absolutely no idea why Hugo insists on bringing me here, into the _lion’s den_ , so to speak. He was very mysterious about it, and he insisted that I would find out in good time – apparently, he needed something checked or confirmed or some other rot. I’m even supposed to arrive early to meet him. Possibly, he needs to instruct me on how to avoid getting hexed into an early grave by a house full of his disgruntled relatives. Oh, how I _don’t_ want to be here! But he insists, and I’ve learned in the last few days that I’m willing to follow him wherever he’s going to lead me. It’s scary how besotted with him I’ve become!

We’ve practically been inseparable ever since the day in the library. He’s always around, helping me organise my days in such a way that everything seems to have a purpose. I was surprised to find out how much a simple thing like having a schedule to follow made me feel better. We talk a lot. He’s seen everything through my memories, and though it’s still anything but easy, I’m learning how to express my feelings rather than stifle them when something is bothering me. He’s teaching me step-by-step how to take back control of my life. And it doesn’t hurt that he indulges me every evening, after I’ve tried so hard the whole day, and spoils me with a sweet cuddle that’s always too short.

God, I’m so desperately horny near him… but I have a feeling he’s trying to make sure that my feelings aren’t just the result of that bloody transference rot, and that he won’t truly give in until he knows I’m better, and that I’ll want him even when I can stand on my own two feet. He has _no_ idea. I’ll be all over him like the plague as soon as his defences are down. Get ready, love. You’re making me work hard for you, and I’m going to make you pay. In a lot of naked, pale, sun-kissed flesh, with a texture so silken I can barely keep my hands off it.

I’ve yet to come farther than exploring that beautiful long neck with my mouth… but last night he didn’t stop me until my lips closed around his tender pulse point to suck on it hungrily. Oh, Merlin’s balls… the way it made him moan and tilt his head to the side in a gesture of surrender has made a hopeless addict out of me. I _need_ to get better soon, show him who I am when I’m healthy and restored to my full strength, or I’m going to perish sadly from a lethal case of blue balls.

So, I’m doing this for him. Facing Weasley… uhm, Weasley Senior… Ronald. He is bound to be absolutely _livid_ when he spots me invading his home. Still rather mental after all these years, that one. To be fair, Rose has invited me to their home a couple of times, but I’ve never really taken it seriously, and I’ve always declined politely, much to her apparent relief. It’s not like any of them – the older Potter-Weasleys – were ever openly hostile towards me after the war, no, but still… I’m very uncomfortable around them. I suppose they remind me too much of my terrible choices.

That is, everyone, but Ronald. He and I… oh, the bloody man is just too damn _feisty_ , and we can’t seem to stay in the same room for any length of time without initiating some sort of a quarrel. We’ve tried being civil on a couple of occasions – mostly Ministry events – where we inevitably bumped into each other. But in spite of only the briefest contact, we always managed to botch it, and we ended up yelling at each other. I swear it must be in our blood – a sort of hereditary genetic defect passed down from fathers to sons.

I can _sort of_ handle Granger, and I suppose Potter has turned out to be quite passable in recent years, though we’ve always kept our contact as limited as possible. But Ronald Weasley is one stubborn _wanker_ who can hold a grudge like no other. I can’t believe he fathered someone as perfect as Hugo; I just can’t!

And now I’m going to have to face him in his own home. God help me. At least my son will be there - and that’s no small comfort, considering that I’m practically walking into enemy camp unarmed and with a target on my back once they find out why I’m actually there. Well, perhaps I’m being a tad melodramatic, but considering that I’m not even sure if they know about us… about my less-than-chaste intentions with one of their young ones, that’s the way it feels! Nevertheless, I can’t say no to Hugo. He’s done so much for me, and I suppose I have to bite the bullet and meet his family at some point. At least I hope I will finally find out what this secrecy is all about.

~

He meets me as soon as I Apparate into a sunlit garden. The radiant smile he greets me with makes it all worthwhile. I’d face my mad Aunt Bella for that smile, unarmed.

“Hey,” he murmurs with that deep, sexy voice, and it makes my heart positively jump into my throat when he casually takes my hand and pulls me closer gently, in full view of anyone that might be spying on us from one of the many windows in the lofty house behind us. I’m immediately hit by that invincible Hugo scent that spells happiness to me, and if I could have it my way, I’d have more than just the small, chaste kiss he presses into the corner of my mouth. But as little as it is, it will do. It’s his unspoken declaration of how he feels about me, and it makes my heart swell with love and pride that I’m not meant to be his dirty little secret.

“That’s a nice little welcome,” I mumble, just a little too overwhelmed with joy for my own good. Right now, I’m just glad I came. He’s totally worth it.

“Oh, there’s more where that came from,” he chuckles gently and kisses the tip of my nose this time, which makes me flush embarrassingly. Merlin’s limp cock, put that mouth anywhere near me, and I’m no longer accountable for my actions!

“Come,” he pulls me towards the door leading into the house. “It’s time to find out why you’re here.”

Just before we enter, I manage to look around a bit. I must confess that Granger and Weasley – Ronald – managed to do well for themselves. I suspect that under all the birthday decorations practically overflowing the garden, their place looks rather nice. It is not as grand as the manor, to be sure, but the garden in front of the house, filled with rose bushes and jasmine, is well-tended, and the house it surrounds looks spacious and cosy. And the best feature: there’s not a single one of Hugo’s relatives in sight. So far, so good.

The room we end up in looks shockingly like the one in St. Mungo’s – only greener, much greener – and I confess, it puts a smile on my face. The image of that other room, still so clear in my mind, never fails to evoke some good memories, and this one has the same airy, comfortable… _content_ look about it, almost as if the owner’s character left an imprint of happiness on it. I want to make a room like this in my home for him – I want to give Hugo some place where he could be happy.

He’s still holding my hand when he pulls me down onto a wonderfully comfortable sofa, and once I’m sitting, he takes my other hand between his big palms as well. He smiles, but his lovely eyes are serious, and the way my skin prickles, I can tell that whatever he has to say is not going to be easy to take.

“You’ve done so well in the past few days,” he says warmly. “I’m really proud of you and of the progress we’ve made…”

“It’s for you,” I blurt out because I’m suddenly filled with anxiety, and I _need_ him to be perfectly aware why I’m doing this. “I’m trying so hard for you. So you won’t have an excuse to let me go.”

Something flickers at the bottom of those lovely eyes, and he unexpectedly closes the distance between us and presses a small, enticing kiss next to my ear.

“Silly…” he murmurs tenderly. “Who said anything about letting you go?”

I didn’t even know how much weight I was holding in my anxious chest until I could let it go in one shivering, exhaled breath. So this isn’t about breaking up with me. Merlin’s grace… I can take anything else.

“I wouldn’t, you know,” he says with sudden blue fire in his eyes. “I wouldn’t just let you go. Not until there was any hope you might actually… like me, for real. I was willing to find you a different Healer, but I wasn’t willing to let you go. Not just like that. And even if it turned out…” he pauses shortly and closes his bright, beautiful eyes briefly, “… even if it turned out that your feelings for me were… of a passing nature… I’d make _damn sure_ that you no longer wanted me before letting you go. Because I’ll never find anyone like you again. You’re it. You’re the one for me,” he says quietly, passionately, and those simple words nearly make my world blur at the edges. And just when I thought I couldn’t love him more… I can’t even speak. I’d choke on all the bloody love he fills me with.

“So… no. This was not about me letting you go. The way we’re going, I’d be a fool to let you go. Never fear. Not going to happen,” he smiles, and it’s that radiant, sincere, knock-out smile that makes me relax more than any words could.

“This, however, has _everything_ to do with you getting better. I was wondering… if you are willing and ready to take the next step,” he proposes calmly, but it still sends a nervous shiver down my spine. I’ve been thinking about it ever since he told me he might have found a way to help me, and I _thought_ I was ready… but now I’m not so sure anymore. I am just slowly gaining control of my life – what if this thing – whatever it is – doesn’t work? Will it cost me all the progress I’ve made? Am I strong enough? But then I look into his eyes, and I find my answer. Yes. Yes, I am. With Hugo by my side, there is nothing I’m not ready to tackle. I simply nod, not quite trusting my voice not to tremble, but he can read our silent language well enough to know that I’m ready. I’m willing to do anything for him, anything he would ask of me.

“Good. Brilliant,” he smiles sweetly, and as innocent as that beautiful smile is, it makes me want to lean in and hungrily kiss it off his face. God, I have it bad for him. But… this isn’t the right time. I only have to look into those determined, brilliant eyes to remember that he brought me here to a different purpose. I need to focus… and behave.

“You know, we’ve been talking a lot lately… and we’ve been working through some of your more complex emotions and feelings that you kept buried inside all these years. A lot of different issues emerged… but all this time – something has been puzzling me,” he says thoughtfully.

And now I’m honestly intrigued.

“After all the memories you allowed me see – I kept wondering how come it was not fear, but remorse that appeared to be your strongest and most persistent recurring emotion – and the one that was the hardest for you to let go. You made me see Voldemort through your memories, and let me tell you love, he nearly gave _me_ nightmares. His barely human appearance… the way he smelled of death and decay, as if he belonged to the other world and had somehow forced his way into this reality… his cruelty, not even purposeful, as in the case of your aunt who clearly enjoyed it, but casual, as if it was the only way he knew… He was truly a terrifying creature, and fearing him would have been a logical response – yet seeing him through your eyes had me feeling more repulsion than fear. I could tell he absolutely disgusted you – but the feeling I was left with was that even your own aunt scared you more. The only fear I sensed coming from you when he was around was not for your own life, but for the lives your parents.”

He’s… _right_. My god, he’s so right. The one time I really feared the Dark Lord was that time in the forest when I didn’t really know who he was. Once I was introduced to him properly, he made me cringe to the very core of my being – but I never felt acutely, out-of-my-mind frightened around him. Merlin, that was… _odd_.

“You’re right. How can you be right about a thing like that? How can that be? How was it possible that I was not wretchedly frightened of him? Everyone else was!”

“I found it intriguing as well,” he nods thoughtfully. “And then I remembered hearing a funny little rumour. Uncle Harry, in his effort to have Severus Snape posthumously exonerated, interviewed everyone who could have been close to him in the last months before his death, and could provide proof of his work as a double agent working on Dumbledore’s behalf. And your Mother, of all people, gave the most extraordinary statement. It was in a sealed document because Uncle Harry didn’t want anyone involved compromised, but Rose managed to dig it out.”

I can literally feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising. They wouldn’t have sealed something that only impacted the dead. Whatever was in my Mother’s statement had to have consequences for the living. And suddenly, I’m immensely grateful that Hugo is holding my fingers in the same tight grip that had always given me the strength I needed so badly.

“You see, your mother told Uncle Harry that before you were sent to Hogwarts with a mission to kill Dumbledore, she had, in her despair, paid Snape a visit in the company of her sister, to ask him to protect you at all cost,” Hugo tells me quietly. I nod. This bit I know. She told me. That can’t be all there is, then.

“Your mother made him take an Unbreakable Vow to protect you, and Bellatrix had apparently made the last minute addition of making him swear he would do the job in your stead if you were for some reason unable to complete it. Your mother protected you the best she could.”

I nod again. I knew that as well. It was what sealed Dumbledore’s fate in the end, even if the old cunning man had orchestrated it. His death was to be the last proof the Dark Lord needed to see that Snape was truly on his side. The old headmaster had made sure that even his death benefited his cause. He was the one and only true mastermind behind the Dark Lord’s demise.

“I know that,” I tell him, but my voice barely seems to work. “She wanted me to understand about Snape before it was common knowledge. She said she owed him a great debt. He performed his mission to protect me exceptionally well.”

“But why?”

Why… what?

“Why did your mother feel the need to protect you – while you were _in Hogwarts_ , under the care of Dumbledore who never lay a finger on any student, and who, in the end, sacrificed his life so you did not have to commit murder – while no special measures for your protection were taken during your weeks-long stay in the company of monsters like the Death Eaters?”

That’s… I don’t know. God, he’s right. That _is_ puzzling. It’s controversial, to say the least. What was Mother thinking? Did she really think that while she was in the manor with me, nothing would happen to me? She couldn’t have been that naïve! She couldn’t be by my side at all times… and things – bad things – _did_ happen to me while she wasn’t there to protect me. Nothing left lasting damage – the bastards were more careful than that – but there was… some damage done. In any event, there is no doubt that I was in more danger in the manor than I ever was at Hogwarts. But she had to have her reasons! With a few exceptions, Mother has one of the greatest and most cunning minds I’ve ever known. She is truly extraordinary. And she never does anything without a purpose. Perhaps…

“Did she say why she did it, then?” I ask, strangely breathless. “Did she tell Potter?”

“Actually, it was my mum who had asked her that question,” the redhead smirks with unmistakeable pride. Of course. Granger, the brain-power of the Trio. Potter is all guts, he never would have thought of it, but Granger’s fantastic brain… she would have figured something was off.

“And yes, she told my mum,” Hugo speaks softly, clearly aware how fragile even speaking of those times still makes me. “She said to consider it a payback for the time she was mistreated under your roof – but that she would hex her blind if she was to ever use it against you.”

Suddenly, I feel faint. So this is about me after all.

“In the days just before you were born, Voldemort had been on the rise. He was in his full power. He was effectively annihilating anyone who stood in his way, making followers of those who feared and admired him, and forcing those who opposed him to run for their lives or go undercover. He was the man of the hour – and back then, he had grand plans for the pure-bloods. Your Father was certain their hour had arrived. He had always aspired to follow someone who would have the power and potential to restore the pure-bloods to their elite position, granting them everything Lucius considered their rightful privileges. He considered Voldemort’s rise to power a godsend. He greatly admired his ambition, and he was in awe of his ruthlessness.”

Merlin, forgive my father for being such a blithering fool! Needless to say, he came to regret his folly many a time once the Dark Lord revealed his true, ugly face, but still… to think that he had willingly associated with that monster…

“In spite of your mother’s warnings –– who was at the time heavily pregnant – and against her explicit wish not to be closely associated with the havoc and carnage the Death Eater movement brought with it, your father didn’t want to be left out of it. Your mother was appalled to find out that Lucius had – thinking himself diplomatic and cunning – offered the hospitality of their home to the dreadfully powerful dark wizard they knew nothing about but that death and destruction followed him like a cloud of flies everywhere he went. She berated her thoughtless husband heavily for it – but the damage had been done, the invitation issued – and much to your mother’s horror, Voldemort came.”

Merlin’s grace… where does this wretched story lead?!

“And not only did he come – he came the moment he found out that you were born. To pay his respects, he said, to congratulate to the fine pure-blood family for welcoming their first-born son and heir… but your mother had a gut feeling it was much more than that. And she was dead frightened. It could have been for any number of reasons. Her panicked, protective brain painted her pictures of the most horrible dark rituals in which pure-blood children were required, and which the Dark Lord was rumoured to perform.”

I feel physically sick. I try to imagine my mother, as young as she was back then, exhausted from childbirth – which nearly cost her her life – and absolutely terrified, with the shadow of that dreadful man looming over her baby’s cradle… and it feels so real, as if I could _remember_ it. I was, after all, the baby in the cradle, staring up the face of absolute evil from the day I was born.

“You can imagine the confusion, relief and anxiety all in one when your mother discovered that Voldemort had no use for you dead – but he was very much intent on making the best use of you alive,” Hugo tells me quietly. “He, a mere half-blood by his own reckoning, needed the political capital your father had as a rich, influential pure-blood from a respected family. You were to be his regime’s poster child: the living, breathing propaganda of the new world on horizon, his tool for winning even the most stubborn pure-bloods over, the noble child from an esteemed family who lived a life of luxury and prosperity under the merciful wing of his reign. He had no children of his own at the time, so you were going to be it. She realised that much when she heard the Dark Lord volunteer himself for the position of your _godfather_ – and your father proudly accepted.”

And this time, it all goes mercifully black, if only for a minute. I… my whole being seems to be squashed into a small, dark space inside my brain, and I can almost feel the darkness I used to fear so much breathing around me. God, I was tainted. Tainted and defiled with his evil spirit from the cradle on. Will I ever be free of him?! He seemed to be reaching out for me even from beyond the grave.

“Draco… love… please, babe… just focus on my voice. You know how to do this, come on, love, we’ll get you out of there…”

It’s the voice… his voice… his beloved, rich and powerful voice that could cut through even the darkest nightmare my mind locked me in and show me the way. I follow that voice like a blind believer, and I slowly become aware of the warmth around me, the familiar love-scented embrace, and I finally dare open my eyes. The blue heaven of his orbs is above me, staring down at my face with a mixture of worry and relief all at once, and I become aware of how cold I am against his warmth, how clammy my skin feels, and how very tired I am.

“Please tell me it didn’t work,” is the first thing I blurt out. “Please tell me that I’m not his… this monster’s… that he wasn’t my…”

I can’t even say it. The bond between godfather and a godson is a sacred one – was a part of that ungodly creature really forever bound to me?

But I can hardly believe my eyes when Hugo slowly but distinctly shakes his head. Merlin… could that mean…?

“It didn’t work. Your mother was absolutely certain about that.”

I nearly black out again.

“How?” How was it possible that the Dark Lord, whom I had known for a fact to be able to perform the darkest, most complex rituals known to the wizardkind, failed to succeed in making a fairly common bonding ritual between a godfather and a godson work? Even a half-Squib could do that! Basically, all one needed was a living child, a consenting parent, and a person willing to take on the role. How was I spared so terrible a bond, then?

“Your mother wasn’t entirely sure…” Hugo says thoughtfully. “But she surmised it was one of two things. For one, she wasn’t willing to give her consent. Your father wanted to get back in her good graces, so he agreed when she insisted on holding you throughout the ceremony. In fact, she was so adamant that even the Dark Lord mercifully granted the new mother what he was believed she considered a great privilege. But your mother had looked up the strongest non-verbal spells for resisting the procedure that she could find – yes, they exist, and they stem from the very same old magic that Lily Potter used to protect her son – and she focused the whole of her magic on it.”

Bless my mother… bless her. Many people would have jumped at the chance to have their son protected by the person who was largely considered one of the most powerful wizards of all time – but not my mother. She knew a rotten apple when she saw one. I could not describe the gratitude I felt towards her in that moment. She might have literally saved my soul.

“But another option came to her mind when the story about the Horcruxes came to light. As you might know, the bond between a godfather and a godson is a bonding of souls – and by the time he came to visit your parents, Voldemort no longer had one… not an undamaged one anyway,” Hugo explains calmly. “He had already made the Horcruxes, split his soul into pieces, and cursed himself to a half-life. But if you want my opinion, it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

I look into those brilliant eyes, and find them smiling. And like this, wrapped tightly in a strong, warm embrace, I dare to ask the question:

“How so?”

“Love,” Hugo says simply. “Your mother had plenty, enough to protect you, and Voldemort had none. Tom Riddle was abandoned as a child; he _never_ knew love and had always underestimated it. But this is old magic, protective magic, the oldest there is – and as such, it is based on the most essential and powerful bonds between an adult and a child: bonds of love and trust. And all he had was a calculated ambition to use you as a tool of his regime in exchange for an illusion of protection – and no love for you. Old magic doesn’t work like that. He had no love to give – so no bond could be made. You were untouchable.”

I could hug him and kiss him stupid right now, but I’m all too stunned to move. Almost like this is all a dream, and I’m about to wake up soon, but it’s somehow making me feel… cleaner than in years. That monster made of pure evil reached for me, did his best to defile and ruin me – and failed. I did not belong to that creature; no part of me did. The feeling was incredible. Liberating. Overwhelming. Just… bloody brilliant.

“But your mother saved the best for last. Voldemort, being raised by Muggles, had no idea that one was supposed to _feel_ the bond once the ritual was completed – he thought that merely saying the words constituted a bond. But your mother knew that if it worked, the person holding the child would be able to feel it – and she felt nothing. She could barely believe that her intention worked so well – and she was quite shocked to find out that the Dark Lord had no idea that the ritual had failed. She was careful not to mention it to anyone. As long as he believed that he was your godfather, he wouldn’t even attempt to hurt you. You, of all people, were the one person who was completely safe from him. This leads me to believe that you were not truly afraid of him, because he never gave you a reason to be. He never meant to hurt you. He believed he couldn’t, not without hurting himself.”

God Almighty… the more I think of it, the more I’m beginning to see that Hugo just might be right. The Dark Lord never once threatened me, not with a word, not with his actions – and not one person dared to even taunt me, let alone put a finger on me in his presence. Even when he had sent me back to Hogwarts with the impossible task of killing Dumbledore, it seemed more like a punishment to my parents than to myself. I was never in any real danger from him. From his companions, yes, obviously, but from him… not as long as he thought we had a bond. Merlin’s limping dog, this was a lot to take in!

But then I remember our previous conversation.

“But that still doesn’t answer why my mother was so desperate to protect me at Hogwarts? It explains why she never tried to protect me from the Dark Lord, but it still doesn’t say anything about why she would consider me in danger from Dumbledore.”

“Your mother was only willing to partially answer that question,” Hugo shrugs. “She said she knew you were no match for Dumbledore, whom you were sent to kill, and she was merely making sure that you didn’t get hurt should you actually attempt it – it wouldn’t the first time a student was killed by coincidence. And then she made a hasty excuse and left. But, believe it or not, I think it was my dad who, in the end, made the best guess.”

I cannot help but raise an eyebrow – and it doesn’t escape him. He chuckles softly, and suddenly, I’m a bit ashamed.

“A lot of people tend to underestimate my dad, but he was in charge of the entire Auror corps’ strategic department while he still worked at the Ministry. His chess-trained brain would rarely let him neglect any of the loose ends on the table.”

Well, fuck me backwards. I suppose there is something about Weasley – Ronald – under all that temper and booming laughter. And Hugo sounds so proud of his long-nosed father that I’m almost… well, perhaps just a little bit… moved by it. I’m sure it will pass quickly. There, gone, I’m all ears now.

“Dad reckoned your mother knew that Dumbledore was a master of intrigue, incredibly connected and protected, the most magnificent wizard of his time – and willing to be quite ruthless when he was protecting the future of the wizarding kind. He _loved_ Uncle Harry – by his own admission, as well as if he was his own – and yet he was willing to sacrifice him to win the war against Voldemort. Imagine what he would do if, by any chance, he found out that you were the one person Voldemort didn’t think he could hurt – and he had a way of finding those things out. You would have been _an ace_ in his skilled hand – and, as your mother believed, entirely expendable. She didn’t want to risk it. If it meant sacrificing Snape – whom, she admitted, would have been her honest choice for your godfather – she was willing to lose an ally like that.”

_JesusMerlin_ … so much new information… it was making my head spin… I would need days to chew through it in my head and make perfect sense of things, come to terms with so many conflicting feelings. But then I feel his eyes on me, that deep blue colour even more vibrant than usual, and then I realise that this is not the end yet. This is not why Hugo wanted me here. He could have passed that information to me in the comfort of my own home. But he brought me here – for what purpose?

“Are you all right?” he asks softly, and the obvious concern in his voice melts my heart. “Are you coping? Do you need some time to come to terms with all this? It must be hard to take…”

“No… I’m… I’ll be fine. It’s just a lot to take in… But this is not why I am here, is it?”

Hugo nods and there’s a flicker of admiration in his eyes that makes me quite proud of myself.

“Always so shrewd,” he murmurs. “You’re very intuitive, love, aren’t you? You are, of course, absolutely correct. I need you to understand what we’re trying to do here. We are tackling whatever issues and negative emotions you’ve suppressed in the years after the war. All of them. Starting with the least concerning – such as your confusing feelings regarding your role in what went on in the manor during the Voldemort’s stay – and moving on to the bigger issues: your fears, your self-loathing, your shame and, ultimately, your guilt and regrets. This is where we find ourselves now. It’s time to take this on.”

Merlin, why am I so weak? I nearly feel faint already just thinking about those pleading voices in my head, begging for help – how can I possibly try to… tackle it, in whatever form Hugo has in mind? How can I take back my own cowardice?

His fingers find their way under my chin, and he tilts my head up gently; the way his eyes sparkle, it takes my breath away.

“I will be with you every step of the way, as long as you’ll need me. You have my word,” he speaks in that warm, calming voice. “You let me see your memories, remember? I already know the worst. I know why it is so hard to forgive yourself – you were there, silent, on the same side of the table with those mean bastards, in matching clothes, with a matching mark on your arm. But you were _forced_ to be there, Draco. Never forget that. They made you sick, what they did made you sick, it still does when you think of it – you weren’t the same as them. You might have sat there and looked the part, but you were _not_ one of them. Do you think that any of them would have been genuinely sorry about what happened during that dreadful time? And when you think the worst of yourself – remember the time when you really could have earned Voldemort’s grace by identifying Uncle Harry – but you gave my Uncle and my parents a fighting chance by claiming you couldn’t. Uncle Harry didn’t testify on your behalf for nothing, you know.”

I nod. I know why Potter did it. I never told him how grateful I was – and I can’t shake the feeling I didn’t deserve it.

“But I think that’s exactly the problem.”

I nearly stop breathing. Is he reading my mind again? How does he always know what I’m thinking? Does he also think that I should have been punished?

“You… were pardoned, love,” he says firmly. “But you were never forgiven.”

_Yes!_ Yes, that’s exactly it. I was never forgiven. I did so much wrong, but I somehow managed to avoid the punishment, and I was simply shown leniency. But the ghosts of those I’d wronged never really went away. How could I be forgiven after all these years? I can’t be! I can’t…

“You can’t ask forgiveness from the dead, so I thought… perhaps, you might be willing to ask it of the living?”

My throat goes dry. I know exactly what he means. That’s why I’m here. _OhChristMerlin_... I… can’t.

“I’m not forcing you – how could I? – but I think it would be really good for you,” he says hastily, almost pleadingly. “You’d only need to ask one… pick one person… give it a chance – give yourself a chance, and see if it makes any difference. I believe it might. I believe it might make a _massive_ difference. But I can’t make you do it. It has to come from you. But hearing that you were forgiven might change your own perception of yourself… allow you to breathe, make you understand that those people don’t look upon you with hatred and resentment. They’ve moved on. And I’m willing to bet everything I own that they’re willing to give you a chance to move on as well. Please, Draco. At least consider it.”

“All right.”

I can’t believe I just said that. It’s not what I meant to say. I meant to say no; I meant to say that I can’t, how could I? I’m a coward, remember? But this… nonsense, this mad bravery, came out from some place deep inside of me, as if that boy I once was, that boy that just stood there and watched them suffer, saw his chance of forgiveness and jumped at it. This is his voice, not mine. I’m as wimpy and cowardly as always. But this time, he prevails. I’ve kept him buried for long enough – he’s not letting me have this round.

“Merlin, babe, will you really?” Hugo whispers, as if he doesn’t quite believe that I really would. I look into his eyes, into that blue sea of goodness and love, and I understand how much he’s putting on the line as well. He just risked losing me, if I refused. He’s still risking failure if I can’t find the right way to ask forgiveness. He’s risking his whole treatment backfiring and setting us all the way back to the beginning of the procedure, with myself more crushed than before. But he’s madly brave, just like his parents. And I can’t… I won’t let him down.

“Who did you have in mind, then?” I ask, but my voice barely works. _Merlinfuck_ , I need to pull myself together. How am I supposed to convey some sort of an apology if I can barely breathe?!

“I thought… perhaps Aunt… that is, Luna Lovegood?” he offers. “She’s a very mild-mannered person, and she was there, in the manor.”

And just like that, I find myself nodding my acquiescence. Luna Lovegood _is_ a good choice. At least she’s mellow enough not to try and hex me into the Dark Ages if I manage to botch my apology. I have absolutely no bloody idea what to say to her, but my blood is pumping in my ears with some unknown, insane courage, and I manage to blurt out somehow:

“Well, no point in delaying, is there? If she’s here, bring her in.”


	7. Chapter 7

She’s still the same lanky, airy creature, and there’s a strange… wispy quality about her, as if she barely exists in this reality, and she’s somehow a part of dreams. Her big blue eyes, slightly bulging, haven’t aged a bit, and she barely looks touched by time.

Hugo has moved to the back of the room, but even though he’s at the very edge of my sight, I can feel his warming presence. He’s here to ground me, hold me, protect me – and it is because of him that I’m willing to push myself through this. I can’t let him – and myself – down. I have to at least try. Just one, he said. This one. Luna.

She floats into the room, all long robes, fluid and aerial, as if she’s walking on a cloud, and her long blond hair, full of rose petals, flows behind her, making her look like a magical spirit of old.

“Hello, Draco,” she says with that gentle, chime-like voice of hers. “You don’t look too good. Hugo says you wanted to speak to me… about the war.”

I still hear her voice ringing in my ears some days, floating up the stairs from the basement they locked her in, barely more than a melodious whisper: _“Have you got something to eat? We’re hungry down here. And thirsty. Mr Ollivander is very weak. He might not make it. Please… anyone?”_

I managed to smuggle some bread and water in there once – but it was just once, and she was locked up for days!

“I’m sorry,” flies out of me before I can form my turbulent thoughts into a proper apology. “I’m so, _so_ very sorry, Luna. I never told you… but I should have. I should have asked your forgiveness years ago. I heard you that time in the manor, during the war… I heard you many times… begging for food and water… and I didn’t… I couldn’t… just once… Merlin, I’m so sorry…”

She is just one… just one person I hurt… or didn’t stop from hurting… but it still feels as if my legs are barely holding me, as the whole foundation of my fragile world is trembling. There were so many more… so many I hurt so much worse…

Her walk is so light I barely know when she crosses the room and puts her thin arms around me.

“There, there… Don’t cry, Draco. What could you have done? You were trapped in there, just like I was. You might have heard me… but I also heard you. I’ve heard what they made you do, and I quite clearly remember hearing you say _“Not that again… please…”_ , over and over again. I remember thinking how broken you sounded. I’ve always thought you had it worse than I, you know. At least I had nothing left to lose. Besides – how could I blame you? My own father had called the Death Eaters on Harry, Hermione and Ron when he was desperate to save my life. I know very well what love for one’s family will make one do – and I’ve always considered myself very fortunate that it wasn’t me who had to make that decision. I couldn’t _possibly_ blame you, dear. No one in their right mind could.”

Perhaps it’s her gentle melodic voice or her sweet manner that make me wrap my arms around her and cry like there’s no tomorrow. Bless her, bless the lovely, silly girl. She didn’t blame me… she _never_ blamed me. And I feel as if a thin poisonous blade was pulled out of my chest, and some of the pain and shame went out with it. Hugo was right. It was easier to breathe. My Hugo… when this is all over, I’m going to worship my lovely redheaded angel to the end of my days. He was a true blessing in my life. God’s grace at last.

Luna’s thin fingers stroke through my hair, she whispers _“there, there”_ every once in a while, and in the end when my sobbing subsides, she hums me a song. And that’s so… Luna, that it makes me smile through my tears. God, she’s mad. But I’m ready to love her quirkiness to bits. She’s seven kinds of precious.

“You look better,” she declares happily, when I finally manage to spell the embarrassing proof of my meltdown away. “You’re so… clean now. All the wrackspurts left you. And you smell nice… of Hugo. You two should come around sometimes. You make a lovely couple, and my husband bakes a pie that makes all the wrackspurts run off.”

Oh, Merlin… so she knows. I manage a sheepish look at Hugo, but he’s all one big, brilliant smile, and doesn’t feel at all put out, or even surprised. He seems to be glowing with happiness and pride.

“We’ll do that,” I manage, and she gives me one last hug before she floats away in her flowing robes. Hugo’s arms are around me before the door even clicks behind her.

“So, _so_ brave of you, love. I can’t believe how well you’ve managed,” he whispers into my hair, and I allow myself the small comfort of closing my eyes in his warm embrace and promise myself to literally settle in here, when this is all over, when I’ve earned it. Because I’m not done here yet, no. I’ve started this, and now I want to do it good and proper.

I press a small kiss into his broad chest, inhale the divine scent of his silken hair, and wipe the last traces of tears off my cheeks.

“Could you bring in another person, please? I want to do this right. If I’m going to be a part of your family now, there can’t be any unspoken resentments between us, and I’ve got a lot of people to give my apologies to.”

The deep, delicious, hungry kiss he gives me leaves me breathless and kind of happily dizzy.

“My beautiful, brave man,” he whispers. “I saw your strength, your resilience the first day we met, regardless of how tired and lost you looked. And I’ve come to love you for it. I wish I could show you right now, right here, how you make me feel, how proud and happy I am that you chose me. What a man you’ve become, Draco Malfoy. I couldn’t have asked for better.”

My heart swells in my chest at his words. If I ever needed proof that I am doing the right thing, this was it. If it’s going to earn me love like this, it can’t be wrong.

“Bring in another one of your horde, Weasley,” I murmur, “before I change my mind, barricade myself in here and take you hostage.”

“I’d love nothing better,” he whispers, and the gentle kiss he presses just under my ear, makes my vision blur. “But I’ll have to show you my appreciation later, Mr. Malfoy. I don’t think we have enough time for what I’ve got in mind for us. Everyone would be _long_ gone already.”

I can see the regret in his eyes when he pulls away, but a quiet promise in the sparkling blue is enough to give me the strength I need.

“Who did you have in mind next?” I sigh.

~

I end up apologising to everyone I can get to.

Neville Longbottom seems flabbergasted when I tell him how sorry I am to have bullied him back in school, that I never knew how bad it was with his parents, and how bloody brave I thought him when I found out. It’s like he can’t quite believe he ever lived to see this moment. He’s a quiet man who doesn’t say much, but the shy, forgiving half-smile he gives me at the end of my apology speaks volumes.

“Uhm, you didn’t do any permanent damage, I guess,” he shrugs. “It was that mad aunt of yours. And she got what was coming to her. You were just… if it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. I was so clumsy back then. I couldn’t help but to hate myself a little.”

It’s still a bit awkward when he shakes my hand in the end, but he seems to walk a little taller, and something in his eyes seems a bit brighter when he turns to leave.

“I think you helped him as much as he helped you,” Hugo murmurs, when he hugs me from behind, and I can’t help but notice that he sounds a bit surprised. “I suppose there are some wounds only you can heal.”

George Weasley is next. I told Hugo I wanted to give my condolences to the Weasleys for the loss of their son – which I’d never done properly – and my heart sinks when I see him walk through the door. He paid the ultimate price, and his face is showing it. There’s a constant shadow at the bottom of his eyes, as if he’s haunted, and his smile is long gone. I tell him how much I’ve always admired him and his brother, how sorry I am that I contributed to that, and that I’m willing to go a long way to be on good terms with the Weasley family.

“You’re weird, Malfoy,” he mumbles when I finish. “You were a vile little fucker when you were a wee lad, but I suppose if that dark bastard had my balls in a vice, I’d help him, too. But you had nothing to do with my brother dying. If I thought you did, I would have found you 25 years ago, and I’d have made a short business out of it. But I suppose this, here, today, took balls,” he smirks, and there’s just a smidge of sincere recognition in his voice. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Is it because you’re banging this one?” he points to Hugo, and his smirk turns into a grimace that could almost be mistaken for a smile.

“Run, Uncle George,” Hugo says with a calm voice, laced with laughter. “While you still have that one ear.”

“Cheeky brat, threatening your poor crippled uncle like that,” the older Weasley murmurs. “Wait till your father finds out.”

I nearly choke on my own loud gulp of air, while he still howls with laughter walking through the door.

“Oh, my… we might have opened a proper can of worms with this relationship of ours,” Hugo murmurs, but I notice he doesn’t look sound too worried, more entertained. “I honestly think we just might have given his existence new purpose. Do not – and I repeat! – _do not take anything_ from him for the next… well, on this side of never, if you value your life and your dignity,” he chuckles, but then adds as if he just realised I had no way of knowing this: “He’s taken you in, you know. You’re a part of us now. Or you will be, the first time he pranks you stupid.”

I can’t wait. Well… I might not be _quite_ that eager.

I leave the trio for last. Hugo brings his mother in first. She insisted, he tells me. Her shrill cries from the time when my mad aunt tortured her still haunt me in my dreams all too often, but Hermione Granger Weasley has no need for my sympathy these days. The youngest Minister for Magic in the history of that institution, she stands proud and looks stern while she approaches me across the room.

“Draco?” she wants to know, her face frowning. “What is this all about? Hugo won’t tell me much, and it’s gotten Ron all worked up.”

“I…”

Merlin, I don’t even know where to begin.

“I’ve started this therapy with Hugo,” finally manage in a shaky, barely controlled voice. “About the war. It’s… I couldn’t manage on my own anymore. It all became too much. The nightmares were wearing me out… mostly, about my time in the manor… with those monsters around me. I was a part of them… only I wasn’t… I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to be a part of them, but they were threatening to kill my parents, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t help… And then they brought the three of you in… and the way you looked at me across the room when that mad cackling of my aunt’s started… I’ve got that helpless, pleading look imprinted on my retinas, because it might as well have been my own… And then you started to scream… Merlin… I couldn’t help you… I _didn’t_ help you… and for that, I’m profoundly sorry, Hermione. For that, and for a lot of other things…”

I could see her expression visibly soften while I spoke, and by the time I say I’m sorry, she’s already got her arms around me.

“… for calling you a Mudblood… that’s not even… I knew better… even my mother would have berated me for that…” I whisper miserably into her fuzzy hair, but she just pats me on my back, and murmurs something like: “Shhh, Draco, it doesn’t matter now, does it? We were children, and the way you were raised, you had no way of knowing any better. Don’t waste another breath on that nonsense; if anything, it’s made me stronger.”

“And I’m sorry for never telling you how brilliant I found you,” I tell her sincerely when she finally pulls away, and – well, I never thought I’d see the moment, but Hermione Granger Weasley goes beet red.

“Don’t be ridiculous… people just don’t say these things to each other. Even my husband doesn’t tell me that,” she chuckles, but it looks suspiciously as if she’s trying to mask how moved she is. “But he better well think it!” she laughs, and my relief is so great, a small sniffled chuckle escapes me as well.

Merlin’s dog… those Gryffindors… they _cannot_ hold a grudge to save their lives. It just takes the tiniest, most botched apology, and they’re ready to hug you and practically adopt you. I’m willing to work to earn this kind of good grace. Minister Granger Weasley has just gained a staunch supporter to every one of her policies!

“Just make sure you treat my son right,” she says unexpectedly, and I’m shocked when she presses a small kiss onto my cheek and turns away.

“I never told her, I swear,” Hugo lifts his arms up as in defence, as soon as the door closes behind her. “I never got around to telling anyone to be exact, and with Mum always working, she’d be the last to find out. But I guess I didn’t have to. I knew she’d guess. She’s so bloody clever.”

And this time, I’d be surprised if the pride was missing from his voice. Hermione Granger Weasley is one parent to be damn proud of.

“Are you still up to this?” my lovely redhead wants to know as he approaches me from behind, rubbing my back in a most heavenly way.

I moan as the wonderful relief floods my muscles, and it isn’t until then that I notice how very stiff I’ve become. It’s like my effort is straining every muscle in my back to keep me straight – but I can’t quit now. I’m not quite ready to take on the two that are left, but it feels as if I have no choice. With every apology I’ve made, I feel a bit lighter, a bit calmer, as if I’m finally sorting through my sins and putting them where they belong: in the past. I can’t stop so close to the finish line.

“Bring in Potter… your Uncle Harry, please,” I tell him quietly. I need someone who will go easy on me… before I take on Ronald. And Potter doesn’t disappoint me; he never does.

He looks stern and tired, but not as suspicious as I feared. I start by telling him about the therapy, about the war and the nightmares, about the idiot I’ve been and how much I regretted it all later – but he doesn’t even let me go far. He visibly flinched at the mention of my nightmares.

“Don’t… just don’t, yeah?” he says quietly, and doesn’t even look me in the eye. “You saved me when you had a chance to give me up – and you didn’t. I never properly thanked you, either. They were all howling at you to confirm it was me under that disfigurement spell – and it would have been so easy for you to do so… but you didn’t. I could tell you recognised me, but you didn’t sell me out. You’d bought us time… enough time to escape and I…” his voice begins to shake, and then he goes silent.

“I’ve got them, too,” he finally blurts out. “The nightmares. About the people who died for me… all of them… a different one every night… and about _him_. That he’s alive and that Death couldn’t stop him. You have no idea… or perhaps… you do.”

He finally lifts his legendary green eyes to meet mine, and I nod with a knot in my throat.

“I do,” I whisper. “At least he hated you. He hated and feared you, and you destroyed him. He _liked_ me – in an ideal world, he would have been me. He tried to get close to me, he bloody _hugged_ me. Have you got any idea how dirty that made me feel? When he was near you, he tried to harm you – but at least you knew you were on opposite sides. He considered me his own, his godson – even if I never was! – a poster child for his new, terrifying future, a foundation he would build his regime on – but just being near him made me sick with repulsion. Do you still remember how he smelled? Of rot… and something long dead? Because I still wake up in the middle of the night with that ungodly stench in my nostrils, screaming my guts out. He got so close… too close to owning me… So, yes, Potter… Harry… I do know. Perhaps I’m the only one who does.”

His eyes are swimming, and his breathing is shallow, so this time, I make the move. I hug him, and he closes his arms around me as if he was drowning. If it wasn’t for Hugo, I would’ve never realised how much relief can come from simply being understood. And we understand each other. The fear, the guilt, the regrets. His demons are just a variation of my own, even if he was on the right side of the war and I was not. That bloody war… it has crippled every one of us in so many ways. But it was time for me to leave it behind. I would walk away, with scars, but _walk.the hell.away. Alive._

“Thank you,” he says unexpectedly. “Thank you for making the effort… coming over, saying the words – remembering… It can’t have been easy.”

“I came to apologise,” I mumble. “Say I was sorry. You didn’t even let me. Stop undermining me.”

That finally makes him laugh through his tears.

“I’m sorry,” I say as clearly as my heavy heart would let me. “For everything. For pestering and taunting you, for slandering you and trying to get you expelled. Oh, and for trying to make friends with you in the first place – I would have made a terrible friend; a dork though he is, Weasley – Ronald – was a much better choice… And for the time when I could have told the world the truth, but I kept silent... _he_ already had his dirty fists around my parents by then, but still… I could have confided in someone, I suppose. Let the rumours out, if nothing else. But I didn’t. I was a terrible coward back then… and I reckon I’m not much better these days. But I’m working on that.”

“With Hugo?” he wants to know, and I only nod sheepishly. I don’t have a clue how much he’s guessed and I don’t want to incriminate myself. Once a coward…

“Bloody hell, Ron will have a nice hefty litter of furry kneazles,” he sighs. “I better fire-call The Three Brooms and ask them to send all their heaviest stock over. And I might have to hide Ron’s wand.”

_How come everybody in this bloody family knows about Hugo and I?!_

“Take good care of Hugh, yeah?” he says pointedly. “He’s kind of, uhm, maybe a little bit my favourite – and I’ll find out if you don’t!”

“Mother of God… Potter threatening me over a freckly Weasley… now, why does that sound familiar?” I mumble sulkily: “Don’t worry – I wouldn’t dare. That boy knows all my secrets. And there’s that little thing of me being bonkers about him…”

“Yeah… there’s that,” he chuckles, and for the first time in my life, Harry Potter holds out his hand to me, and the look in his eyes is friendly.

“I waited over three decades for that,” I mumble while I shake his hand, but he merely shrugs and smiles in reply:

“The way I figure, you’ll need every ally you can get when Ron finds out about...” he points at Hugo, but my pretty redhead only smiles beatifically in reply:

“But everybody knows already,” he says innocently. “How could dad possibly miss it?”

I sure as hell hope you’re right, gorgeous. Because it’s time for _the worst task ever_. I think I might have it worse than the Triwizard Tournament contestants with the job that’s ahead of me. Ronald Weasley happily hates my guts, and how I am to reach any kind of truce with him is beyond me… but I have to try. My peace of mind is worth it; my Hugo is worth it. And should I fail, at least I’d know I gave it a shot.

“Have you thought it all through _well_ , Hugh? I mean he’s… Draco. He’s Scorpius’s father. Are you _sure_ he’s the one for you?” I hear Potter interrogate the pretty redhead behind my back quietly, and I try to stifle my annoyance. Bloody Potter, always so protective. But Hugo’s reaction makes my heart leap into my throat.

“One and only, Uncle Harry,” he chuckles sweetly. “You told me yourself this morning that I was glowing. I just _know_ , all right? And I think you do, too. Are you sure this isn’t more about trying to protect Dad from the shock of a lifetime than it is about me?”

“Freckly little scoundrel you are,” Harry Potter mumbles, but there’s so much affection in his voice that I can’t help but forgive him for his meddling. “You were always too smart for your own good. I’ll get Ron, then. Don’t forget to call, uhm, reinforcements, if he gets a bit, er, carried away. You know your dad’s temper.”

“I _have_ my dad’s temper,” Hugo says pointedly. “It might not always show, but I’m a Weasley through and through. Just remember when I was five and you, fools, tried to take my favourite toy away? You know – for that super important press conference when Mum was made Minister and we all had to attend? Some rot about it being too chewed up. But it was _my favourite toy_.”

“Ugh… point made,” Potter growls, and I can tell from his grimace that _that_ must have been some nasty business. “I think that room you threw a tantrum in is still sealed. People think it’s haunted. I’ve seen an Erumpent’s horn with less explosive power.”

“Well, just remember – he’s my favourite – and I’m no longer only five,” Hugo smiles sweetly, his eyes lit up like two blue fires, and it has Potter backing towards the door.

“Yeah, yeah… I recognise a threat when I see one. Spoiled brat, intimidating your poor aging uncle like this…” he mumbles to himself, but not really looking too miffed. “I’m going to get your dad now – and make a call to St. Mungo’s just in case.”

The door barely closes behind him when Hugo’s arms close around me from behind.

“You’re the best,” he presses a string of enthusiastic kisses into my hair. “You’re handling this like a boss. But are you sure you want to do this last one? My dad… I know you two don’t see eye to eye. I don’t want this to end on the wrong foot – you’re doing so well.”

I turn inside his arms and greedily take a small kiss for all my trouble from his soft mouth. And the way that those beautiful, lush lips open and welcome me melts my insides into a puddle. When he mewls deliciously, I literally have to pull myself away from him, or I might’ve thrown a _Colloportus!_ at that door, and had my evil way with him. I’m so, _so_ very tempted.

“God, Hugh…” I moan, somehow trying to figure out with my melted brain what the hell was I even doing here that didn’t involve debauching the most delectable Weasley on the planet… Weasley… oh, yeah… right… That _other_ Weasley. Ronald. I needed to focus on Ronald. Bloody man always ruins my finest moments!

“Yeah, uhm… I’ll be all right… but I’ve got a bit of a request,” I start sort of awkwardly. “Would you mind leaving me alone with your father? It’s just that… he triggers the very _worst_ in me, and I might not be on my best behaviour,” I say sheepishly. “I’ll do it… I’ll do my best to make a good job of my apology, I swear, but, uhm, if it doesn’t work… I’d rather not have you here.”

It might get ugly – but I can’t really tell him that. But my clever, intuitive redhead doesn’t argue at all. He simply nods and presses one last kiss on top of my nose. Oh, my… that one always gets me.

“Later, love,” he says, already moving for the door. “And Draco – keep it simple. Dad doesn’t like big words. And for god’s sakes don’t call him Ronald – no one does. Well, only Mum, and only when she’s really ticked off with him. Ronald… is for bad times. He’ll just think you’re mocking him, and he’ll hex you before you close your mouth. Just Ron will do.”

Well, that was comforting… not. Bloody Weasel… still barmy after all those years.

~

The first thing I notice when he enters is how handsome he still is after all this time – and how shockingly like Hugo. I confess, I never quite noticed his attractiveness before – I was always too busy being irritated by him, but right now, everything about him reminds me of Hugh. Well, everything _but_ the frowning face and stormy blue eyes. He doesn’t look too happy. Merlin’s dead thestral, here goes nothing…

His arms are crossed against his chest and he’s looking at me with that mistrustful, sceptical expression on his face he always gets at the sight of me.

“What is this, Malfoy?” he growls instead of a “hello”. “My wife wouldn’t tell me anything other than to go easy on you, and Harry came out after he’d clearly been crying. What tricks are you up to now?”

Oh, damn… I knew why I left him for last…

“I… would like to apologise,” I tell him as calmly as I can, and clear my throat, determined to make a quick business of it. His face immediately turns suspicious and wary.

“Why?” he demands to know. “What did you do? Come on, spit it out! I told Harry something was going on underneath that _“oh, I’m so decent now”_ act.”

“Nothing is _going on_ , Weasley,” I say pointedly. God, why does that pig-headed fool always have to make it so hard?! We are three seconds into the conversation, and I already want to strangle him. “It’s about the past… about the war.” I have to bite my tongue not to add _“you fool”_. Salazar’s floppy ears, he riles me up so!

“Oh…” he mumbles, his voice a bit more subsided. “What about it, then? You were on the wrong side of it, what more is there to say?”

“That I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’ve been having therapy with your son lately. I had to… I nearly strangled my wife during one of my nightmares.”

For some reason, it’s really easy to be brutally honest with him. We’ve always been very direct, raw and in-your-face with each other, and I’m shocked to find out how easy I find it talking to him.

“Uhm… that’s… harsh,” he mumbles, looking surprisingly… ashamed?... for a moment, but it doesn’t really last long enough for me to be certain.

“Then why didn’t you say that right away?” he erupts again, sounding proper ticked off. “Waiting for me to make a fool of myself, were you? All, right – let’s hear it, then. But – wait! Does it even count if Hugo made you say it?”

“Hugo didn’t make me say _anything,_ ” I struggle to swallow another _“you dork”_. “I’m doing this because I want to.” _And because we’ll soon be related_ , I want to add, but I’d rather not poke at that sleeping dragon quite yet.

“Right,” he smiles a sly smirk that says _“I don’t believe a word of that crap”_ and makes me want to punch his lights out. The things I’m doing for Hugo… seriously.

“All right, then. Spit it out so I can go back to the party,” he growls. “I have to find my wand. Some fool with a death wish nicked it. I’m suspecting Teddy’s little scoundrel. That kid is a proper Marauder in the making.”

Thank goodness for small favours. Potter – or Hugo? – clearly did his job well.

“Oh, shut up,” I finally lose my nerve. “This will be faster if you just shut up and hear me out.”

“Git,” he murmurs sulkily, but when he finally goes silent, his blue eyes are lit up and full of curiosity… a bit like Hugo’s, really, and that kind of makes my job a bit easier… kind of. I inhale deeply. I might as well…

“As I’ve already said – I’ve been having these… sessions with Hugo lately,” I hear my own voice, and it shocks me how tired I suddenly sound. “I’ve always had… _issues_ since the war, but they’ve intensified since Scorpius moved out, and after that incident with my wife… ex-wife… I realised I needed help. Scorpius recommended your son, and we’ve been working through my problems since.”

I chance a look in his direction, but Ron Weasley is surprisingly silent and calm. Unnaturally so. I’m not used to seeing him this way. He looks somewhat paler, serious and composed, and I remind myself that he was the head of the strategic department of the Auror corps – his temperamental character aside, Ron Weasley clearly knew how to pay attention when he deemed it important. And for some reason, he really seems to be listening now. As if I wasn’t nervous enough...

I clear my throat once again and continue.

“I was especially troubled by the events that took place in my own home, occupied by the Death Eaters – and my role in them. Now, you have to understand… I know my father _offered_ to host them, but he had to. His position was unstable as it was, and he couldn’t afford to fall out of the Dark – Voldemort’s – good graces completely. The consequences would have been devastating for our family… and we’re all there is left of the Malfoys. So, we were virtually hostages in our own home, and we had to play along. And I… found it extremely troublesome.”

I hate how my voice begins to shake again, but it seems I’m just too tired and too emotionally wrecked to talk of those wretched times with any sort of indifference.

“I, as you know, was forced to participate. They wouldn’t just let me sit behind the table with them and wear the same clothes, they wanted me to show my allegiance by…” I swallow, “… by hurting people. And sometimes I had to. It made me absolutely nauseous – I swear, I spent the first few weeks vomiting after every interrogation – but in the end… I had to comply… too many times. You know I was never the bravest one out there, and then there were my parents to consider… so I did it. I hurt people. If you were their captive long enough, you would have probably been one of my… victims. They probably would have thought it hilariously funny.”

I cast another brief look in his direction, but ashen as he is, he still hasn’t moved a muscle.

“So…”

My mouth is completely dry, and I no longer know how to continue. I have this silly, out-of-the-blue thought that if he’d gotten killed back then, there would be no Hugo, and my heart sinks completely.

“I’m sorry, yeah?” I blurt out, and my voice trembles terribly. “For not helping you and such, and for letting all those people suffer… and die. For being such a bloody coward all the time.”

“What the fuck are you on about, Malfoy?”

Uhm… That’s not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

“Since when is being scared a crime, eh?” he wants to know, and glares at me across the room. “I was scared stupid in the bloody Spiderland Harry dragged me into! I still have nightmares, and I’m in my forties! I was half-mad with fear when we were on the run and all the bloody scum of the earth chased after us! I was bloody petrified during the Battle of Hogwarts! And not only for myself – for everyone! All the time! You can’t possibly be sorry for being scared?!”

Well…

“Unlike you, I let fear guide my actions,” I try to explain – but the bloody idiot won’t even let me be sorry properly! “You were scared – and still you did the right thing. I was scared – and I caved in!”

“Let me tell you what _right thing_ I did,” he unexpectedly crosses the room in three long steps, stopping inches from me. God, he must have been a bloody horrifying Auror – there’s an angry, intimidating presence about him, the element of untamed unpredictability, that makes me very happy to know that he doesn’t have his wand on him.

“I _abandoned_ them, that’s what I did,” he says through the gritted teeth. “I left them, my best mate and my future wife, because I was scared and desperate, and jealous. I was tired of running, worried sick for my family, and I wanted to go home really badly. That’s what _I_ did, Malfoy. Not hurt some strangers to protect my family – but abandoned the two people I loved the most. Because of my bloody temper, my insecurities… for bloody _comfort_.”

Oh. I see. That’s… oh. I finally recognise the emotion in his eyes for what it is – not anger, but hurt, and shame. Just… like mine.

“If something would have happened to them because I left I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself,” he says quietly. “I found no comfort that day, and I cursed my bloody temper a million times. It took me weeks to find them again. Turns out it was that bloody medallion – a Horcrux – around my neck amplifying my insecurities and the darkness in me – but it didn’t create it. It was always there.”

“But you came back!” I tell the stubborn ox, frustration making my voice rise, because he refuses to get the point.

“But you saved Harry!” he returns with the same forceful passion. “If only by deception. The point is, you didn’t rat us out when we all expected you to, and when you stood only to gain from it. You could have stopped the war in that moment, Malfoy, do you realise that? They would have called He-Who… Voldemort, and he would have killed Harry, and everything else good in this world, and he would have won. Your family would have been prosperous, and you would have been a bloody hero. But you refused to identify Harry. You gave all that up because you knew Harry was doing the right thing, and you _didn’t_ give into your fear. Not in that moment, you didn’t. And it was a crucial one. You’ve got shit to regret, Malfoy. If anything, you helped Harry win just like the rest of us did.”

He’s got a point, I know he does, and that bloody man has the same power over me as his son does: he’s making me feel better, even if that’s not his intention. But he’ll be gone, and my guilt will return… and I realise I’m not quite ready to give it up to someone who _doesn’t.bloody.get it_!.

“But all those people in the manor… dozens of them!” I howl at him. “You have no idea, you…”

I barely stop myself from calling him a moron again. I can’t fucking believe him! Everyone else has forgiven me, but the bloody pigheaded man was not willing to do the same – he was practically saying there was nothing to forgive! And there was! Tonnes! There were bodies, and screaming, and all that pleading – there was a proper hell, made of the horrors I saw and caused, stored in my brain. They held a trial for me – they must have thought I was guilty!

“… you _weren’t_ there,” I finally squeeze through gritted teeth. “Not the whole time, you weren’t. Barely a couple of hours… I was there for weeks.”

“Oh, yeah… about that…”

His eyes are sparkling, and look genuinely angry now, and he seems to have grown in the last few moments. Freakishly tall… freak.

“I was with you in the same bloody place in my mind every moment I didn’t know where my family was, Malfoy,” he growls. “At least you were with them; you had a semblance of control. You were in it together. And I’d made my choice when I left with Harry and Hermione – but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t absolutely fucking tormented with visions of what could happen to my family. I thought about it _all the time_. I was glued to that bloody wireless, listening to the names of the dead and the missing, and I turned the same thought around in my mind over and over and over again until I was losing my mind with it: what would I do if they got to one of them – just one! – and told me to give myself up, or else…? It was my recurring nightmare. A never-ending one, it seems,” he spits out with a mixture of anger, frustration and sadness that makes my skin prickle, because I’ve felt the exact same thing countless times.

“That’s why I let my job at the Auror corps go to hell as soon as Hermione got pregnant: I wasn’t willing to lose a chance to be by my family, protecting them, caring for them. I knew what it meant to have your family worried sick about you, and I didn’t want to do that to my kids. So stuffing the shelves for George it was. He was generous enough to offer me a partnership, but I would have taken just a job,” he shrugs, and for the first time in my life, I feel unbidden, deep respect for Ron Weasley. Looks like the man wasn’t as shallow as I always took him for…

“It took some soul-searching, but I realised long before that what I would’ve done if I’d found myself in the same situation as you,” he speaks a bit more calmly, but there’s an eerie tone to his voice that makes the hairs on my neck rise:

“If I was you, in that manor – or anywhere else – Malfoy, and I had my family to protect, I would have hurt, hexed, and killed _the fuck_ out of you… or any unfortunate soul they’d put in front of me. I would have done any bloody thing they asked of me. I was just lucky it didn’t come to that. There’s a million ways to break a man, Malfoy, and sadly, it doesn’t take much to break me. Just a person I love,” he says quietly, and finally I realise what makes me hate and despair of him so.

“We’re – ”

“Yes,” he says simply, reading my mind without any effort at all.

“ – _very much alike_.”

And we were. We were like two sides of the same coin. Never mind our differences – when it came to crucial things – core values, and instinctive responses – Ron Weasley and I, scarily, had a lot in common. Not only we were both pure-bloods raised in exclusively wizarding tradition and nearly completely unspoilt by the pulse of the Muggle world out there, we weren’t noble and self-sacrificing like Potter, or righteous and virtuous like Granger – we were deeply ridden with faults of our own, and we blundered all the time. But we were also ridiculously protective of our own; we were willing to be petty and ruthless if it got us what we wanted, we could be madly dedicated and passionate when we wanted something, and far from perfect as we were, we knew right from wrong and were willing to change if that’s what it took to take the right path in life. Ron Weasley was my mirror. A bit distorted, to be sure, but yes – much the same.

Now, _that_ is a lot to take in. I take a deep breath – and realise that most of the weight in my chest is gone. I will never be able to take away what happened in the past – but if Ronald bloody Weasley could learn how to live with himself, goddammit, so could I. It wasn’t me being weak. It was _love_ that made me so… and it took one Ronald Weasley to make me see that. That realisation melts the last traces of poison in my chest. I think… the impossible redheaded bastard just gave me much more than he was aware of.

“I still think you should apologise,” he says unexpectedly.

What?! But didn’t he just…? God, I hate that smirking face.

“I think you should apologise for every bloody time you mocked me for my poverty – like it was something I chose! – and you should apologise for trying to humiliate me with that stupid Quidditch song, and for every damn time you said anything bad about my family and my mother,” he says slyly, with a victorious smile nearly splitting that freckled face in two.

Oh, no… Petty little berk. I should have known better than to think he was going to let me off the hook so easily. But I owe the git, even if he doesn’t know it. And it’s going to make me look really cool and mature in front of Hugo later. I’m ready to go a long way for that.

“I apologise, Weasley, for every time I called you dirt-poor - though that didn’t seem to cause any lasting damage. And I apologise for the song that made you _win_ that bloody game – and you got to rub it in for a long, long time. Oh, and I sincerely apologise for insulting your mother – I had _no_ idea she was so formidable,” flies out of my mouth so smoothly, I can almost see the air getting sucked out of him. Ha, the ginger Neanderthal didn’t expect that! Just look at his blue eyes bulge in disbelief! It makes me feel smug how disappointed he looks that I handled it like a gentleman!

“Uhm… all right then…” he groans miserably. “I reckon that was a fair effort… for a Malfoy… Besides, Hermione will have my balls for a cake topper if she finds out I was _being ungracious_ ,” he mumbles to himself grudgingly.

“I guess that’s apology accepted,” he sighs, not yet quite at peace with the way things worked out. “But just because we’re soon going to be… ugh… seeing more of each other.”

“Yeah,” I say enthusiastically, pleasantly surprised that he came to terms with my relationship with his son so easily. “I’m fairly smitten with Hugo, and I’m happy to say that your son returns – ”

I stop, because his eyes look about ready to fall out of his head. _Oops_. Uhm… fuck? Just my luck. And I was doing so well.

“Hugo… and _you_?!” he says feebly, backing up to the nearest chair and collapsing on it like an empty sack of misery.

“Well...yes,” I say awkwardly. Looks like the rumours of his proverbial obliviousness weren’t quite so exaggerated. “I thought… you perhaps knew. Everyone else seemed to! And when you said we’d be seeing more of each other, I assumed…”

“I was talking about Scorpius and Rose having a baby, you… _blasphemous, bleached pervert_!! My _son_! Of all people! Oh, bloody hell on a pancake!!” he hollers like a wounded werewolf, looking completely flabbergasted and unable to catch his breath. “Get the fuck out of here! I can’t believe my ears! Did you hex him, then? I knew it would come to that! He was always mixing with the mad crowd! He must have caught some of the barminess! _Where in seven hells is my wand when I need it?!_ Out, out, out with you! And get my wife! Or scratch that, I need a drink more… get me a drink! Call St. Mungo’s while you’re at it; there’s an alcohol poisoning coming their way tonight. Or a coronary. Harry!!! Haaaaarry!!!!”

I’m not ashamed to admit that I do a runner. I swear he’s turned, uhm, scarier over the years, and once a coward… you know. I send a frightened house-elf to find his wife and barely flatten myself against the wall when Potter barges past me with a bottle of sparkling amber liquid in his hands, clearly at the ready.

And I… I’m completely exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for a year. I need to find Hugo… and sleep for year. But, of course, he finds me. When those familiar strong arms close around me from behind, my knees stop taking my orders and simply give in. He’s carrying my full weight, and it feels so bloody right, I want to sob.

“Done?” he asks simply, and kisses the top of my ear.

“Done,” I confirm, and feel his embrace tighten around me.

“Good,” he whispers gently.

“Your father...”

“Never mind my dad,” he chuckles and presses another greedy kiss into my hair. “He’ll get over it. Or used to it. Or whatever. This our time - and you’ve kept me waiting long enough. Now, Mr. Malfoy… what do you say to making some nice, brand new memories?”

Oh, god, yes! I could _totally_ use that. His wonderful, magical fingers are rubbing the tiredness out of the stiff muscles in my neck, and I can’t help but purr in delight:

“Darling… you _always_ have the best ideas.”


	8. Chapter 8

I wake up with the feeling of a soft mouth closing around my nipple, sucking gently, and the thought of what is coming makes me whimper happily, wantonly. The distinctive, sensual, sex-charged musk of my man all over me sends a rush of blood up my cock, already at half-mast, and my body is instantly busy flaring to life under those long, skilled fingers. Oh, god, this is the best way to wake up… It’s been my way to wake up for over half a year now, and I hope I can keep it that way for all time. I think it’s safe to say that my blue-eyed, redheaded god is somewhat… _insatiable_ , but it’s all right, really, because I can’t bloody get enough of him, either.

I swear, he made a sex addict out of me that very first evening half a year ago, when he took me to his room at his parents’ place. We never made it further than his childhood bed that night, and it was there that he introduced me to mind-altering love-making that made me a staunch believer in God and Heaven. I’ve never had anyone _treat_ me – oh, Merlin’s big balls, suck me off, all right?! – the way he did. The way that sinful, delectable mouth spoiled me rotten and indulged my every depraved desire, was… oh, god, yes! I grow hot and bothered at the mere thought of what a messy, sloppy, gorgeous affair that first time was. It might have made me scream for more… a little bit. But only because I couldn’t help it!

It turned out that my decadent, loving redhead had a very distinct idea on how to make those happy memories he promised me. I think by now we must have baptised every room of the manor – and I suspect some bigger closets as well – with fucking so glorious that I can’t really go around my home anymore without blushing profusely at the thought of our past debauchery.

In the morning, he wakes me up with his persistent, delicious need that makes me smile like a loony throughout the day, and on weekends, he treats me to his most magical, full Hugo experience that leaves me with half a brain, and melted all over the sheets, wondering if I’ve just had a coronary and if I’ll ever walk again. Sometimes he rushes home during a lunch break and bends me over the nearest piece of furniture for a desperate, rough fuck I adore so much I’m ready to beg for it, and it leaves me barely able to function and stupidly happy for the rest of the day. Just a whispered hint of it in the morning – _“Perhaps today I can make some time for you in the afternoon, love; will you be ready?”_ – makes my knees weak with anticipation. I make damn sure I’m groomed – and ready – for those afternoon visits.

But my favourite are our evenings. He’s all mine then; there’s no rush, nowhere to be, and he takes his precious time with me. He spreads me out in whatever room we happen to find ourselves in, and proceeds to make a slow job of undressing me, tasting me, spoiling me, marking me, fucking me until I fall apart in his arms, coming so hard I nearly sob with relief. And afterwards, he holds my boneless, exhausted, ridiculously sated body in his warm embrace, lulling me into a deep sleep that has no more room for nightmares. I rarely have any of those these days.

He was worried at one point that it was only because I was clinging to him so desperately – though he didn’t quite word it that way – so I grudgingly agreed to an experiment during which he went back to living with his parents for a few days. I didn’t have a single nightmare, not one. I was way too busy missing him like mad. When he fire-called merely four days after he left, his guilty expression visible even in the ashes, I barely let him finish his apologetic _“You think we were apart for long enough? I miss you…”_

Just the sight of that pretty face did it. I grabbed the nearest container of Floo powder and transported myself directly into the Weasleys’ living room, making Ron Weasley spill his evening cocoa all over himself.

“I didn’t have a single one!” I blurted out. “No nightmares. I swear. Please, come home. I miss you, too. And I want to…” I barely stopped myself before spelling out in front of his flabbergasted parent that I desperately wanted to hump him. That was the last time we spent a night apart. It was ridiculous how bad I had it for him.

But as much as we love our… uh… carnal activities, they’re not all we are busy with. Hugo opened a private practice – and clearly the word of his successful approach got around, because I heard Potter mumble that he was going to have to chase the clients away with a stick at some point, and that he really needed to learn how to say no. I guess that bloody war left a lot of people with poorly healed scars. 

And I… ugh, I’ve been coaxed – bullied, blackmailed… call it whatever you like – by Hugo into teaching the pre-Hogwarts Granger-Weasley-Potter-Lovegood kids some basic potions in the mornings. Granger’s idea, to be precise – and it was just two hours! - but since that lot is as prolific as they come, the manor often echoes with happy chatter and laughter of nearly a dozen kids these days, whose favourite idea of fun is to irritate the hell out of my old ancestors’ portraits. One of the rooms in the manor was transformed into a classroom, and another into a potions lab I need for a small business, specialising in complex potions, which I mostly run in the afternoons.

In fact, nearly all of the rooms in the manor have been redecorated subtly, yet significantly. A few lost their heavy drapes and depressing wallpaper, and even more had their dark, pompous furniture replaced by a more modern piece of two. Oh, and I made sure all the rooms got a good amount of bright light. No more shadows, guilt and darkness. I wasn’t having any of it.

It isn’t all roses, of course. Sometimes an odd nightmare still echoes through my dreams, but just the warmth of Hugo’s body, protectively stretched across mine, is usually enough to chase it away before it can develop into something devastating. He always makes me feel safe.

The portraits of my ancestors sometimes still loudly complain about “a filthy blood-traitor in their midst” and “indecent displays of affection”, but Hugo developed a quick cure for their sour tempers: he would remove the loudest one and turn it towards the wall, while telling the rest of them he was moving it to the attic if they didn’t shut up and find something better to do than insult the current master of the manor. With a few choice pompous phrases testifying of their indignation, most of them still had enough wits about them to get message and shut up. We gave up on Grandfather Abraxas and gave his portrait as a gift – and a sour, well-matched conversational partner – to my father for his birthday.

Ron Weasley would still growl unhappily every time we met, but he gave up trying to change his son’s mind after Hugo cheekily threatened to reveal a juicy detail from our intimate life every time he broached the subject. He never made it past _“Draco’s got these really pale nipples, wonderfully sensitive…”_ – It instantly sent Weasley Senior bolting across the room as if he were being chased by a nesting Hungarian Horntail while he bellowed for Potter to Obliviate him. It’s been sort of peaceful on that front ever since as well.

I suppose you could even call it a truce between us, since Rose – a proper Weasley, that cheeky girl! – gave birth to not one, but two of the prettiest babies on the planet. She kept carrying twins a secret, and my poor Scorpius nearly had to be levitated off to a bed of his own when the beautiful, healthy little girl they put in his arms was followed by a tiny baby boy, who found a place in his mother’s lap. My poor boy was bawling so hard, I thought he had hurt himself. But then I remembered the day he was born, and I decided it was probably another one of those things, passed down the line from father to son. I remember nearly drowning my wee son in tears the moment I got to hold him.

Oh, but who could blame him – they were gorgeous! The little princess had a shock of bright ginger hair, a gentle hint of freckles, and fierce blue eyes, but the lovely boy was so like my Scorpius as a baby – tiny round face, with rosy mouth and wondering grey eyes – that I had to fight back my own tears when they put him in my arms. God, he was tiny! And pretty! And precious! I was beaming with pride just holding the next little Malfoy.

“Yours is pretty as well,” Ron Weasley mumbled when he approached me, holding his granddaughter, who seemed tiny like a beautiful, colourful pebble in his giant arms. “I guess we’re grandfathers now, huh?”

When I only nodded, still a bit choked from my tears, he uttered a soft _“Yeah…”_ like his voice wasn’t so sure either, and reluctantly offered: “So, uhm, wanna get sloshed together later?”

The way I figured, that was the best peace offering I was going to get, so I agreed, and we literally woke up two days later, not remembering a thing – which was all right, really, because it was all very nicely and copiously documented in a photographic spread on the front page of the Prophet. Hugo still teases me with one particular photo in which I’m hanging around Ron Weasley’s neck, clearly trying to tell him something from so up close, it looks as if I’m trying to kiss him. When the redheaded _King Weasley_ – as he had proclaimed himself according to the Prophet – came to his senses, he allegedly tried to buy all the copies of that rag of a newspaper, but that was never going to happen – every copy was a collector’s item by then.

But – quite honestly – I don’t mind loosening up a bit. I’ve been locked up in my house, in my mind, for far too long, and I’m enjoying my freedom. And I owe it all to the blue-eyed beauty currently wrapped around me like a second skin, looking for all my sensitive spots with that ungodly mouth, and sending shocks of pleasure up my sensitised body. I bury my fingers in the silken, coppery treasure of his long hair splayed across my chest, and I bring it to my face, revel in its rich, intoxicating scent and the fact that it is all mine to admire.

“Playing with my hair again, precious?” he murmurs, and gently trails his tongue up my ribs, making me shiver pleasantly.

“You know you got me with those infamous words… _Sum tuo aere_ … you cheeky boy,” I murmur, a little too excited to even attempt a lie. “All I could see was that coppery hair of yours glittering in the sun, and I was done for. I would have done anything – and I mean any bloody thing – to get my hands on that treasure.”

“Would you like to hear those words again, lovely?” he murmurs with his mesmerising face wearing that killer, sexy smile hovering inches above me.

“I’d _love_ to say them to you,” he traces the outline of my lips with his maddening tongue, and kisses my moan straight out of my mouth hungrily.

“I’d _love_ to make good on my word, too…” he whispers playfully. “But I’m going to need that copper eventually, my love.”

“Well, since you ask so prettily…” I gasp when his face sinks into the crook of my neck, and I come really close to surrender. Just… I need to do this right. Somehow, by the pure grace of God, my fingers feel the round metallic shape I put under my pillow in the evening, and I manage to slip a round band, made of ancient red gold and perfectly priceless, straight onto the finger of Hugo’s hand cupping my face. The shocked expression on his face when he stares at my family heirloom is my cue.

“There’s your tiny little copper, babe… I need you all to myself… all of you… for all time… Please say yes, beautiful. You know I can’t do without you.”

The captivating blue diamonds of his eyes are on my face, and the way they glitter, they look precious enough to steal. And then an absolutely brilliant smile lights them up from within, and he bows his head in a princely way, as if honouring me.

“A promise is a promise, my lord,” he says sweetly, with that feigned innocence that drives me wild. _“Sum tuo aere."_


End file.
